A Father's Promise
by Nedjmet
Summary: Two hearts devoted to music, two souls scarred. One living in darkness, one clinging to the hope of a father's promise. Modern day setting.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Prologue

The house was old. And everything about it was dark: from the grey stone it was built of to the trees and overgrown garden that kept it isolated and hidden from the road and any curious passers-by. It looked like it hadn't been lived in for decades, never mind years. Had a storm broke instead of there simply being more cloud than blue in the sky, the picture would have been complete.

It was perfect.

Christine turned to Antoinette, this woman whom she had turned to since the death of her mother and who had taken care of her since . . . in the last few months. Antoinette searched her face and saw no signs of disgust or disappointment. Instead she saw something they all thought had been gone for good in those eyes: hope.

She led her young charge the rest of the way up the path and unlocked the front door. Like everything else about the house, it gave off the impression of being old and long unused – but that did not make it any less wonderful. Christine made her way silently inside to the surprisingly large foyer. Everywhere the eye could see dust lay thick and smooth.

Everywhere Christine looked, she saw magic.

As she moved through the rooms on the ground floor, that feeling pervaded. The design was wonderful: a Victorian period house with furnishings to match. The dust made the dark wood on the floor and walls even more so, yet anything less would have detracted from the feel of the place. It had appealed to her sense of style even from the outside. Now, within, she could feel something creeping over her that had almost been forgotten. She reached the entrance hall where she had begun and then turned with a wide-eyed stare to Antoinette and mouthed to her:

"_Music._"

Antoinette regarded her curiously and was about to question her 'second daughter', but was stopped as Christine raised a finger to her lips almost in reproach and simply gestured to her ear. She moved over to one of the bare walls and ran her hand lovingly over it – never touching it, so the dust remained undisturbed – in an act of seeming reverence.

It clicked.

Christine had always joked that the walls in their house were so saturated with music that even when all else was silent, you could still hear the notes.

Her hand lowered.

Antoinette saw the look on her face and understood. This house was perfect.

This house felt like home.

She only hoped that feeling would last.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 1

Christine brushed the sweat from her brow. She had finally gotten everything moved in. Madame Giry and her daughter Meg had helped as best as they could, but Madame had staff meetings to attend and classes to prepare before term started; whilst Meg had ballet practice.

Were it not for the fact that Christine understood all too well, she would have thought those extra classes insane. Meg, like herself was entering her first year at the prestigious Ravelle Institute of Performing Arts, and whilst some of their classes overlapped, Meg's major was dance. She often complained about her workload, which probably wasn't too surprising, seeing as her mother was to be her teacher for the majority of it – but anyone who saw Meg knew she was born to dance, and anyone who knew her, knew that she would agree.

With this thought, Christine paused in her work. She looked about her and once more the stupidity of it all weighed in. Here she was moving everything into a strange house that she might not even be able to stay in long-term, all to start a course she was probably no longer eligible for. After all, who would in their right mind would accept someone onto a music course, specialising in vocal performance who was . . . no, it wasn't true. Papa promised. He promised. . .

He lied.

A tear slid down her cheek at this thought. Only one. She couldn't allow more than that.

But it was true, no matter how many tears.

If he hadn't been lying, she wouldn't be in this position.

No. Papa wouldn't lie. He never did. How was he to know that this would happen? How was he to know that any of it would happen?

It didn't change anything though.

They still turn her away when they found out.

After all, why would they take on someone meant to be a voice student who was. . .

Someone who was mute.

Imagine the irony of it all; the daughter of the great Katie O'Neill, a child of music.

A mute.

Madame Giry assured her that they could make allowances. That in all other respects she was still a very worthy student. That they could probably get a special voice teacher for when her throat had finished healing.

It didn't help that no matter what the course, for every place at the Ravelle Institute, there was somewhere in the region of 200 people seeking a place.

Two hundred people seeking _her_ place.

Two hundred people who could at least speak, whatever their singing capabilities.

And yet, because she couldn't even speak anymore, in spite of her efforts, she was still denied a voice in many things, so she had lost that argument. Or at least she had stopped fighting when Madame pointed out that she and her father had worked to hard for her place, and he would not her to give it up.

She hadn't said what _it_ was. But she wasn't fool enough to believe that more had been meant than just a place at a school.

At any rate, Christine had found herself moving the last of her belongings herself on the bus. The Giry house, where she had been staying, was not very far away – unless you were lugging all your worldly possessions. It hadn't taken as long as she had feared – although longer than expected, as she had managed to get a lot more stuff whilst there. That and she had brought her parents' memorabilia out of storage at last. Now that she finally had somewhere to put it.

She was glad the old house had been too small for everything; otherwise even these mementos would have been gone too.

At least that was a situation she didn't have to worry about here. The house was huge – to her mind anyway. In actuality, whilst it was large, it was not overly so. A family of six would probably have been able to live in it comfortably.

Christine slipped the scarf down from around her face.

She had been dusting all day, trying to find places to put everything. A few knickknacks here and there made the place feel more lived in, without conflicting with the style already in place. She had claimed one room on the second floor as her own, which had been transformed accordingly. There was a second living room at the back of the house which had been turned into a shrine of sorts to everything that had come out of storage. Other than that, the hardest part had been shifting all the dust that had collected.

The scarf had been removed once she had looked around and decided that she was finally done.

She was wrong.

Her cough brought her to her knees as pain ripped through her throat. She gasped at the pain and tried to swallow to ease it, but that only made her breathing laboured, which made it worse. Her lungs ached. Her throat was on fire.

NO!

Not that!

She tried to fight off the memories, but her physical pain sapped her mental strength, and she began to drown once more.

She couldn't fight it.

She collapsed on the floor, alternating between sobs and gasps for air as she gave in and became one writhing figure of pain. All else was lost to her, and so she was barely aware of the bag being placed over her mouth. As her breathing steadied, her consciousness waned. All she saw before the blackness descended was a shining white face and she mouthed:

"Angel."


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 2

**Two weeks earlier**

"It is completely out of the question! I will not allow it!"

Antoinette inwardly sighed. She had known the man pacing furiously before her for too long to have expected anything else from him. He finally realised that she was not saying anything in reply and stopped in front of her. She regarded him evenly.

"Will you at least allow me to explain?"

"Explain? Explain how you're going to invade my privacy? Tell me, Madame, is this protégé of yours prepared to live with a **freak**? Did you explain _that_ to whoever it is?"

"Your privacy would not be invaded." He stood there almost glaring at her, waiting for more.

"My ward requires privacy and solitude as much as you. There is nowhere else on this campus that would allow that and you know it. You haven't used any part of that house above ground for years. If the key to the cellars were to go missing, then I fail to see how there would be a problem."

He paused a few moments, and then went on quietly:

"You know how I live."

"Yes."

"Madame, I am not in the habit of keeping hours that would be deemed as . . . socially acceptable." These last two words being laced with venom.

"You would not be the only one." She replied on a sigh. He looked up with interest.

"Well done, Madame. I have not been had my curiosity aroused in some time. Tell me, did you think your charge suitable to be _my_ protégé perhaps?"

Antoinette's eyes snapped up to meet his, at first with horror, but then she looked as though she might actually be considering the idea.

"Perhaps." She congratulated herself. She had never seen him lost for words. He looked at her as though she'd lost her mind. "Is it so unreasonable? I know of no one else who lives for music."

"Are you speaking of me, or this child?"

"A few months ago I would have said both."

"And now?" He was shocked to see tears come to her eyes: Madame Giry who rarely displayed any other emotion aside from her annoyance at the incompetence of her 'ballerinas,' though she often commented that the term was applied loosely. Yet there was no mistake about it. The mark of sorrow was in her gaze.

"I will say only this. You are not the only one to know pain."

"If you will not say more, how am I to know whether or not to allow this?"

"You did not wish to have your privacy invaded. Can you not respect that in another? You of all people should know what it is to be viewed with prejudice." This time he really did glare at her, and in a way that would have sent grown men fleeing. Indeed it had done on many occasions.

"Madame-"

"Please. In all the years we have known one another I have not once asked you for something. I ask you to allow this now. Accept my judgement in this."

The help that he had received from her hands over the years hung unspoken in the air. Neither of them mentioned it. Neither ever would. Neither had to.

"You have my consent." Antoinette's face lit up – as much as such a stoic demeanour could. "However, if I find the arrangement to be disagreeable, you WILL find a reason as to why it can no longer continue. Is that understood?"

"Of course. Thank you, my dear." His heart warmed momentarily. Such endearments had rarely been bestowed on him, and though he never let on, he savoured each one.

"What can you tell me about your charge?"

"A music student, supposed to be majoring in voice. You needn't frown so. I know what your standards are like. I think even you would be able to appreciate her talent."

His head snapped up to attention.

"_Her_? You are sending a _girl_ to live with me?"

"Yes."

"Antoinette, have you taken a complete leave of your senses!"

He rarely addressed her by her first name, and so she knew she was treading on thin ice.

"Certainly not. I know I can trust you to be a gentleman," she cut him off mid-protest "and since she will be under the impression that she is living alone, I again fail to see where the problem is."

"Madame, need I remind you that you are one of a VERY small number of women who have not fainted, screamed or run away at the sight of me."

"You would not see her."

"Just because I hide myself away out of habit does not mean that I will be prepared to do so in my own home!"

"I didn't say she would not see you, I said you would not see _her_."

"I fail to see the difference."

"I told you she needs privacy."

"So much so that she will shut herself away, even indoors?" She just looked at him, unable to speak though the answer was clear.

"Why?" He knew how pointless it was to ask. She had kept his secret long enough, she was not about to reveal others. She began to make her way out.

"You said she is supposed to be majoring in voice?"

"Yes. Her place is secure, but we don't how long that will last."

"And why is that?"

"She may not be able to meet all the requirements anymore."

"You are certain this is necessary." It wasn't a question. It was useless to question Giry. "Very well."

She nodded her thanks and left him to his own thoughts once more. Said thoughts were in turmoil. It was rare for Giry to seek him out, but he would never have expected this to be the reason for it. He had spent years living away from the world, with only a few exceptions. He was more of a ghost than a man. The barest trace of smile curved his mouth up a little on the left-hand side.

Yes, he knew the value of privacy, but whatever this girl's secret, he was sure to learn it in time. He knew Giry would not give up someone in her care easily. What would drive any college student to hide away like this? Especially a would-be performer.

_I know what your standards are like. I think even you would be able to appreciate her talent._

An interesting verdict. And what possibilities would be presented if it proved true. Yes, he would keep an eye on this one. After all, he knew all that moved in his domain, and since one was about to do so on a greater level, he was not about to make an exception, now, was he?


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 3

She was wandering around the ground floor.

She looked so out of place at first, this creature of life surrounded by the dust of ages. She moved with a quiet grace like that of a dancer. But her step was heavier. As she walked past the doorway that finally brought her into view – her left side anyway – he could see the sadness written across her face.

No.

Sadness wasn't the right word. That would have been the case if she was simply upset about the state of the house. It was more. He recognised sorrow like that. He had felt it for most of his life. It weighed down on her, sapped the light from her features. Suddenly she didn't look so out of place after all.

And yet, she was still stunning. She had her blonde hair tied back into a long, wavy ponytail, and she was hiding behind a pair of glasses and dark, baggy clothes that almost disguised her slim frame; but she was stunning.

She didn't seem distressed by the condition of the house. She went back to Giry, who looked at her strangely as she mouthed something. Then she began to move her hand close to one of the walls. Oddly enough, a look of peace settled over her features, momentarily removing the shadows.

She was staying.

He wasn't entirely disappointed.

She could see the beauty that was hidden.

Maybe. . . no. That was foolish.

When Giry gave her the keys, she clutched them to her heart. She looked as though she'd been given the world.

She started moving in the next morning. He didn't realise until he saw Giry and her daughter arriving, at which point it became clear that she had already been hard at work for a good portion of the morning. And yet he had not heard her. True, his apartments were soundproof, but it was not like him to miss someone else being in his home.

This could prove to be interesting – as long as she remained in her place.

Giry's comments about the cellar did seem to confuse her, but she hadn't even looked in that direction so far.

She remained silent all morning. Even when lifting heavy boxes, she didn't make a sound. The only thing to happen was her breathing would grow more laboured. He had not been lying when he'd said his curiosity had been aroused about this girl. Giry's description of her voice had only furthered that. And yet she was silent! If he ever chose to 'retire' he had no doubt that this girl would prove to be an adequate replacement for the resident 'ghost'.

He wondered what she would think if she knew whose house she would be residing in. No doubt she would learn soon enough. And then perhaps questions? Or visitors? Or would she tell Giry that she would have to live elsewhere?

Time would tell.

Whether she would, remained to be seen.

She worked with Giry and her daughter for a few hours. They seemed to know where things ought to go and merely looked to her for a nod as confirmation. The rest of the time she would simply gesture.

Little Giry was talkative enough. It was a relief when she left.

When Giry left as well, she didn't say anything. The two merely exchanged a look. He was used to being patient, within reason. Having his curiosity peaked in such a fashion and left unsatisfied was not, in his opinion, reasonable. She had some questions to answer about her charge.

The meeting she attended was yet another unproductive introduction to the year. Outlining policies they already knew, debating measures that would not be decided upon for another term, and would be of no use to anyone who didn't aspire to work in an office – a fine state of affairs for Ravelle.

She knew he was there. She wasn't always aware of his presence, but when he wanted her to be, there was no mistaking it. She'd known him too long for that. She stayed behind a little longer to make sure her opinion was heard on various matters, and have a chat with Richards, the orchestra tutor. It would be hard to call the two friends: the strict no-nonsense ballet mistress and the highly-strung, overly precise conductor, and yet, no matter how grudgingly, their relationship could hardly be called anything else.

Once she'd left the block, he called out to her from the shadows.

"Your charge is a most . . . unusual girl."

She spun around to the direction the voice came from.

"Compared with whom?"

"Compared with any other voice student." Antoinette jumped as he spoke from behind her.

"Why must you insist on these childish tricks of yours?" She berated the shadow now towering over her. He had to give her credit. In spite of her petite frame, she still knew how to make a person quake in their boots. Pity he had rarely been counted as a person. It might have worked otherwise.

"You would deny me one of my more harmless diversions? Perhaps I ought to find another source of amusement." Antoinette simply glared at him, too tired and frustrated to decide whether he was making idle threats or not.

"You came here simply to call my daughter unusual?"

"I was under the impression that she was your ward, Madame."

She began the walk home once more, preferring to avoid being seen with her conversation partner.

"Her parents were great friends of mine. She and Meg grew up together. After her mother's death, she would turn to me on the rare occasions when she needed someone other than her father. Legally she is my ward. But she is like a daughter to me also."

"Very touching, Madame."

"Why did you call her unusual?"

"For a voice student, she is exceptionally . . . silent." He searched for the correct adjective, and once again was surprised at finding that the most accurate. She was not just quiet, which - he reluctantly admitted - he would have appreciated. She was silent. How many teenage girls could that be said of? Not Little Giry, that was for certain.

"In case you'd forgotten, that house has more dust in it than the school storerooms. She doesn't want to risk damaging her voice."

"You and I both know that a little dust would not do that."

"True. Just as we also know that we're not talking about a little dust."

"You and Little Giry did not seem to mind." Antoinette stopped and looked at him knowingly. She thought he'd been watching them, but knew better than to question him about it.

"We do not share the same concerns." Her tone of voice said that there would not be anymore forthcoming information on the subject.

"You said her mother is dead."

"Yes." Her voice quavered a little, which did not go unnoticed.

"What about her father?"

"He died two months ago. She has yet to recover." She whispered. To his credit, he said nothing in reply, allowing her to momentarily grieve once more for her lost friends and for her adopted daughter.

"Madame, I-" He stopped short at her look of horror. Then he heard it. It sounded like someone was halfway between choking and sobbing heavily.

"CHRISTINE!"

Giry dropped her cane and ran – no easy task for a woman with a limp. He froze a moment, once more shocked into stillness by this little woman. Then he snatched up her cane where it fell and followed. They reached the door together to find the girl curled up on the floor, hacking wretchedly.

Antoinette grabbed the bag that hung by the door, pulled out a paper sack and moved to Christine's side. Her hair fell over the right side of her face as it was styled to do. Antoinette shifted it slightly and placed the bag over her mouth. After a few moments, her breathing began to become more even and then less heavy.

She opened her eyes and feebly pushed the bag away. Then, to Antoinette's horror, she looked past her.

She looked straight at him and did the strangest thing.

She mouthed '_Angel_'.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 4

_Mother Giry,_

_About yesterday; I thought I'd taken care of all the dust, but I missed a spot. At least now I know to be more careful about those lamps._

_You're probably wondering why on earth it was so bad. If you are, then I know that whilst I have to rest, I probably won't get much peace until I tell you. I was thinking about Papa. I thought about all the promises he made. I know you don't know all of them, but they mean as much to me as the ones you do know._

_I was thinking about the course again. I know we've been over this enough times, but I can't help worrying. I do want to stay here, for Papa, but I still don't think they'll let me. Not when they find out._

_Anyway, I was thinking about that when I found the dust, or it found me, whichever. Then I started to think about the what happened._

_I think the rest is self-explanatory._

_Dr Philips called round yesterday. But I'll bet you didn't need to be told that. He says it probably set me back a week, conservatively speaking. I asked how long, speaking non-conservatively (is that a word?). He said a fortnight._

_I think at the rate we're going, if my voice comes back at all, it'll happen by about Spring Break. I can hear you banging your cane as you read that last part. Telling me to stop feeling sorry for myself._

_I don't feel sorry for myself, Mother. At least, I don't think I do. I had my fill of pity before. I'm not accusing you or Meg of that. I'm not trying to wallow in it, I am trying to live._

_But please understand; there's only so much I can live while my heart lies in a grave. He was everything to me, Mother. That's what I've lost. I can't ignore that pain. I won't. I'm so afraid that if it stops hurting, then it'll be as though I don't care anymore. I'd rather learn to live with it than give it up._

_That isn't feeling sorry for myself, Mother. I have enough people to do that for me back home. No doubt there'll be more here if people find out._

_Mother Giry, I have to ask; was there someone else there when you found me? Don't say Meg, because if there was someone, then she isn't that tall. It's just that I'm sure I saw someone. Someone with a shining white face. That sounds silly doesn't it? Maybe I was seeing things, but I'd like to know either way._

_If there was someone, did they see? I know you wouldn't let someone see if you could help it, but if you couldn't? I just don't want all of that to start again. I will be ready for when classes start, but I wasn't ready then._

_Will you tell me?_

_Anyway, that's what the problem was this time._

_I wanted to thank you as well, for finding the house for me. I don't know if you can realise how grateful I am. I've been thinking about it whilst I lie here. I know now why I felt so drawn to this house when I first saw it._

_Do you remember how I used to joke that our walls absorbed so much music, you could hear it even when it stopped?_

_These walls are _saturated_ with music. I thought no one lived for music the way we did, but whoever lived here must have done. I think this is where Papa and I would have lived when people started to listen._

_Now they never will._

_But we heard the music. It won't go unmissed._

_I'll let you in on a little secret – and you know me better than to think this is a sign of madness – but I can hear the music. Not ours. It's different in this house. Every room I go in, I can hear the echo of it. Whoever lived here before me must have been a great man (and I know he was a man because there's no hint of a woman's touch). He must have made _music

_You know what that means. You must have heard us on the subject often enough._

_What I wanted to say was that I don't think I could live anywhere else. I don't think any other house would suit me so well. And I doubt anywhere else would allow me to live._

_You know I swore off music. It's because I know I couldn't have stood it. But this house, the music within it: it's unlike anything I've ever known. I think it will help._

_Thank you Mother. For helping me like no other. Again._

_Your 2nd daughter_

_Christine_

Antoinette looked at the paper. She could see her face as the letter was written; could see when the tears had fallen. Each mention of her past had been blurred to some degree - without exception. That's how all of her letters had looked.

She hated that this was the only way Christine had a voice. The only way that was permitted of course. She would never have believed a daughter of Charles and Catherine would ever turn their back on music. It had always been acknowledged that any child of theirs could not be thought of as anything less than a child of music itself.

That Christine had once again failed to sign off 'with love' grieved her once more. Before it had all happened, not once had Christine ended a phone conversation, a letter or an e-mail without saying something along those lines. Since her voice had been lost, love had not been a part of her vocabulary. Antoinette knew the place that she still held in the child's heart, just as she knew that she had no hope of healing until she allowed herself the luxury of feeling love again.

She reread the sections about the house.

It looked like it was again time for a chat with the other resident.

* * *

**Author's Note: At time of writing, this story is up to over 120 hits and only one review. This is my first fanfiction, so reviews are a huge encouragement, if only so I know that people like it. I am trying to stay ahead of the story, and currently have five chapters waiting to be posted, but I am determined to keep it to one chapter a day. However, every time the review counter hits a new 10, I promise I will do a double posting. Besides, if I get reviews, then I'll know how to do it and I can start leaving them as well! Thanks guys. Keep reading, and I'll try not to ask for reviews often. Nedjmet**


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 5

She had been dreading this moment for two and a half months now: her first class.

The idea of it had been nerve-wracking enough when she had had a voice. Now, all she wanted to do was run: run to the ends of the earth and never look back; run home and straight into the loving embrace she knew would be . . . no! Now was not the time for such thoughts, it would only make matters worse – if that was possible.

She had spent two weeks settling into the house and getting to know the area. She couldn't call it _her_ house, because there was nothing other than the fact that she lived there to justify such a claim. And she knew all too well that simply residing in a place did not qualify for true ownership, did not make it a person's home. Occasionally she had seen people in passing whilst going about her errands. Some would smile; she never quite knew what to do with these characters – that knowledge was lost to her. Others would look at her with curiosity: these she resented, no matter how innocent the glances were. Most ignored her, which she was grateful for.

What intrigued her, however, was that she hardly ever heard people going past the house, whether on foot or in cars or whatever, which was strange seeing as the house was on the way into the main section of the campus and should have therefore been passed often. Yet it was avoided by the plague.

She thought of asking Madame about it, but decided that she enjoyed the privacy too much to jinx it.

And so, two weeks had passed. The house had her mark on it without losing anything of its previous character (anything good, that is – the dust was long gone). She had gotten herself well acquainted with the area and no longer worried about getting lost. She knew the tiny forest the house was situated in and had spent many an hour out there, enjoying the tranquil nothingness that it brought to her mind.

And now she had her first class today: advanced vocal performance.

The class was held in the second theatre. The Ravelle Institute boasted two theatres, both of which were excellent for performing in, boasting first-rate acoustics and design. They were ideal for working in, both as a performer and behind the scenes. The smaller of the two was used for classes, rehearsals and smaller scale performances - say for audiences consisting of other classes - and could seat two hundred quite comfortably. The larger theatre could, and did, put many opera houses to shame, with its beautiful, intricate decoration depicting the muses, red velvet curtains and seats, ornate sculptures of angels, the boxes, and of course the massive chandelier that was really the only light necessary in the place.

Christine had seen it on her tour when she had auditioned for a place. To say that she had been blown away was an understatement. She had grown up hearing stories of the theatre where her mother sang, of the various opera houses and concert halls where her father had sometimes played. They were nothing compared to the Ravelle.

Thank goodness her class wasn't in there, otherwise she probably wouldn't have even thought about showing up. But here she was, sat in the shadows of the stage whilst everyone milled about. It was only thoughts of what her father wanted that kept her in her seat and not rushing to the bathroom to empty her stomach – well, and the fact that doing so would only torture her throat more.

She observed everyone as they chatted. They were all new, but already she could see cliques had been formed. Probably they lived in the same dorm blocks, or the same towns back home; or if they were really lucky, had known each other at school.

One girl, she noticed, drew a lot of attention. A small group had gathered around and was looking at her as though she were a star already. She made a show of pretending to be flattered, but you would have had to have been blind not to notice that she was soaking up and thriving on every moment of it. Whilst she had been raised not to judge anyone without knowing them, Christine felt her parents would forgive her for labelling this girl as the resident Prima Donna. They probably would have agreed.

Before her thoughts had the chance to turn mournful once again, the doors slammed open and in swept Professor Gardiner, the school's voice teacher – and reportedly one of the best in the country.

"Fondest greetings to you all! I trust I am addressing Vocal Performance, Level 3 and that no one has managed to lose themselves on their way to instrumental or dance classes? Good, good.

"I am Professor. Gardiner as I am sure you are all aware, as it was my seal of approval you had to earn in order to enter these hallowed chambers that make up our prestigious institution.

"However, that is done with, and you now have me at a disadvantage. Enjoy it, it will only happen once, of that I can assure you. Said disadvantage being that whilst you all obviously know who I am, I am afraid I cannot reciprocate fully, seeing as there were many applicants, a fact which I am sure you can appreciate." All of this appeared to be said in one breath; because Christine was quite sure she didn't hear him really stop at any point. He did pause however and began to move into the centre of the currently empty orchestra pit and continued:

"So, tedious as you will no doubt find it, we shall spend this, our first class getting to know one another. I shall be offering this opportunity within class time only once, so again I say: make the most of it. Gather round, form a circle – standing if you please. You will give your names - and thus ease my burden of having to take the register – and if you would also state where your musical abilities and preferences lie. By this, I of course mean bass, tenor, alto etc. and of course, opera, aria, jazz and so forth." He said this last category with a grimace.

Christine joined the circle with the others and tried to stand where she thought she wouldn't have to start. This ended up being directly opposite Professor Gardiner, and fortunately, her plan paid off.

Unfortunately, the first person to start was the Prima Donna. On Professor Gardiner's nod, she began.

"First of all, I am Carlotta Guidacelli." This received a few gasps, and several knowing looks of admiration. One boy who stood opposite her asked what was on the minds of most:

"Any relation to Luciana Guidacelli?"

"Yes, she's my mother." Gushed Carlotta clearly pleased with the recognition.

Luciana Guidacelli had been the actual Prima Donna in a number of opera houses in both Europe and even America. She was a soprano the critics couldn't seem to find fault with, in spite of the fact she often ended up screeching a few high notes. Amongst theatre circles, her attitude was infamous. She was often the headliner, and boy did she know it. With any luck her daughter would be have some idea as to the definition of modesty, but Christine doubted it.

"My preferences are for opera, naturally, although I am of course partial to a number of musicals. And I shall be singing soprano. I hope to follow in my mother's footsteps." Her last comment was followed by a small round of applause. Christine groaned inwardly – it's not as if she could otherwise, whether she had the nerve or not. She noticed Carlotta had said that she _would_ be singing soprano, not that that was simply what she thought her range to be.

The introductions continued around the circle, though without interruption or applause. By the time the girl stood next to Christine was speaking, her palms were sweating like crazy. She was just hoped her forehead didn't decide to follow suit.

When her neighbour finished, all eyes turned to her expectantly.

She glanced quickly around the circle, then turned to the boy on her left and with her hand, gestured to him to take his turn.

He didn't take the hint. He just looked a bit confused. He looked at Professor. Gardiner in appeal.

"Come now, miss. Everyone gets their turn."

Christine just looked at him, silently pleading with her eyes. He didn't take the hint either.

"Really, it isn't difficult. The others managed, and you're holding up the class."

She looked about her, and then realised: her bag was on the other side of the pit, near the stage. Stupid, Christine, stupid! If she had a pen and paper, then maybe she could ask him-

"Do you have laryngitis?" The Professor's voice cut in with some annoyance. Christine looked at him dumbly a moment, then shook her head.

"A throat infection?" Now she just looked at him stonily: and shook her head.

"Then I fail to see why you can't participate. Now either take part or you can permanently remove yourself from this class."

Everyone was staring at her now; some with confusion, most in amusement. She could feel her cheeks burning – no! turning red.

She stood there a few moments more glaring at him. How could anyone be this cruel to a new student on the first day? He was mocking her and giving everyone else the chance to later!

She marched over to the blackboard that was tucked away to the left of the class and pulled it into view.

"Young lady, the lesson is in the circle, not on a board, and you have been given the choice to participate or leave, now do one or the other and leave that blackboard alone."

She looked around for some chalk and finding it, began to write.

"Miss, you are trying my patience! Now-" He saw what she was writing.

'_Christine Day_

_Opera, Classical_

_Soprano, coloratura'_

"Miss Day, when I asked you to participate, I'm sure you are aware that this is not quite what I had in mind. Now is there a problem with your hearing or your ability to understand, because I do not appreciate having my authority flouted."

She closed her eyes. She had spent the last fortnight promising herself she would not allow any tears to fall while she was there. But they were threatening to fall now. She had hoped to let her teachers know before her classes started, but she hadn't been able to find them, and Professor Gardiner had insisted on arriving on the dot.

"Miss Day, your conduct is most unprofessional and I will not tolerate it in my class! Either give me a VERY good explanation as to your behaviour or-"

He was cut off by Christine smacking the chalk against the board and then furiously scribbling:

'_I AM MUTE'_

"Miss Day, if this is your idea of a joke, then I assure that I do not find it funny." She continued to look at him. Two months of being mute had leant her a very expressive face, and the seriousness and sorrow written so clearly across her features silenced him further on that subject.

"Stay behind after class. Until then, resume your place."

* * *

**Author's Note: I know I said I'd try not to ask too often. Over 200 hits! I am astonished that so many people have taken an interest. But could you please leave some feedback. Even if it's just a sentence. Remember: double update for every 10 reviews. Special thanks to CarolROI and Shayril for your reviews. It made my day. Thanks to everyone for reading. Nedjmet.**


	7. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: This one's for my star reviewer, CarolROI. Hope it answers some of those questions. Thanks for allyour support.**

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 6

"Why didn't you tell me she's mute!"

Antoinette halted in the corridor and looked around quickly to check for the presence of anyone else. She could not have mistaken the venom that laced the icy voice emanating from the shadows. Quickly steeling herself she replied:

"It was not my place." He stepped into the light and stood glaring down at her. Most others would have felt dwarfed and begun to wish the floor would swallow them. She stood firm.

"Not your place. Madame, you piqued my curiosity by speaking of her talent and her love of music. In the fortnight she has spent in _my_ home, I have neither heard a sound from her, nor has she allowed one note to be played. Even when your daughter's phone rang, she turned it off immediately!"

Antoinette allowed the hint of a smile.

"Meg's phone plays the overture from _Carmen_. You know the noise those machines make. Surely you will allow someone else to be offended by them."

She thought she saw the ghost of smile trace his features once the brief look of surprise had passed.

"If her fondness for music is what you claimed, then her behaviour has yet to be justified. Her silence coupled with her presence have forced me to return to the cellars here for my music, since I cannot always tell whether she is in the house or not. Now unless you can justify this inconvenience, I may have to rethink our agreement."

"Don't you dare!" she gasped, horrified. He raised an eyebrow.

"You presume to tell _me_ what to do about _my_ house?"

"You don't understand. She needs to be there. It is the only place where she can begin to heal properly."

"My house is not a hospital, Madame." She swallowed and in a subdued voice, explained.

"Her home used to be filled with music. She would joke that the walls had absorbed so much, they couldn't hold it anymore, which is why even when it was silent, Christine claimed she could still hear the music. She hears the music in your house in the same way. She says it is a music she does not know and I believe that is why she can bear it. Anything else just reminds her of what she has lost.

"If you still keep the same ungodly hours, then do not worry about playing in that house. I know she will appreciate it."

"But I would not appreciate having my privacy invaded."

"It would not be. I know her. She will simply attribute it to the echo."

"Echo?"

"The echo of the music left behind by the former resident." He considered all that he had heard for a few moments.

"Fascinating as this all is, Madame, I find myself drawn back to the original subject. How can she tell you all of this when she is mute?"

"She writes letters. She holds conversations by writing."

"Then she has not always been mute?"

"No. How did you find out?"

"Gardiner did his usual class introduction. She said nothing and was ridiculed until she explained herself on the blackboard."

Madame Giry's hand flew to cover her mouth in horror.

"Christine!" She turned and began to hurry towards the second theatre, leaving her bemused companion to stare after her as he disappeared back into the shadows.

* * *

Thankfully the class had ended as she arrived. The throng of students broke off to let her enter. Madame Giry was highly respected throughout the school, and her reputation spread quickly enough that even the new students knew to stay out of her way. She saw who she was looking for and reached her just as the last of the class was trailing out. 

"Christine, my dear, I'm so sorry; I had meant to be here for the start of your class but I was unavoidably detained." Christine squeezed her hand in reassurance that it was okay. Antoinette could see just how clearly it wasn't.

"Madame, am I to understand that you know this young lady?"

"Yes, Professor, I am her guardian."

"Indeed. I was hoping to have Miss Day explain a few things, but seeing as you are here, perhaps you would be so kind?"

Madame Giry looked pointedly at the blackboard and its contents.

"Christine is quite capable of answering whatever questions you might have, Professor. I came to see that she got through her first class alright." Christine gave her a knowing look. Had that been her intention, she would not have tried to be there at the start.

"Well, perhaps you would care to be present for our conversation anyway, being her guardian?" She nodded her assent.

"Very well. If you would care to follow me to my office?"

He swept out of the theatre in much the same manner he had entered and the two women followed him to his office, which was two corridors and a flight of stairs away– right above the backstage area of the smaller theatre.

The office was small, but the walls were filled with posters, programmes and reviews of operas and musicals, with a few devoted to performers as well. His desk was neatly covered with lesson plans and files. In spite of his flamboyance, it was clear that he was passionate about both his profession and his art. The Ravelle Institute simply wouldn't take anyone else.

He shut the door and let the two ladies seat themselves before assuming his place in the desk chair opposite them.

"I must begin by being frank; I have no knowledge of sign language, so I am afraid I don't know how to hold this conversation. I don't think we can stick with 'yes' and 'no' answers."

Christine held up her hand before either of the two teachers could say anything in response. She dug around in her bag and produced a notepad and pen,then allowing Madame Giry to explain.

"Communication has yet to be a real problem for us. I will fill in any blanks necessary. Other than that, Christine will answer you."

"Miss Day, first of all: my apologies for what happened today. You must understand, however, that I was not expecting to have a student in my class who was unable to communicate vocally."

She nodded.

"May I ask how you managed to secure a place on this course with such a problem?" He shot a glance at Madame whilst saying this, which was responded to with a glare.

He looked at the pad Christine offered to his glance:

_You approved me._

"Indeed. I believe I would remember auditioning someone who claimed to be a coloratura at such a young age."

_I didn't claim that._

He looked at her in sceptically.

_I auditioned as a soprano. You approved me without an interview and told me I was a coloratura._

He stared at her in recognition. The Ravelle Institute had a notoriously difficult interview procedure. Auditions were given solely on recommendation, usually from more than one respectedsource – and only after a written exam had been passed sufficiently. If a person was lucky enough to complete an audition, they had to go through at least two interviews by varying, but very demanding, panels.

He remembered a girl standing on the stage before him, slightly further back than the centre looking as nervous as anyone else, and yet she had carried herself with a dignity that suggested she was proud simply to be there, as though such an accomplishment meant the world to her. He had been ready to dismiss her as another wannabe with moderate talent who would no doubt land a place in a good chorus if she tried to make it professionally.

And then she sang. There had been no accompaniment. That was unheard of. Applicants usually didn't have the courage to begin without even one note as a cue.

When he had asked her to begin, he had looked at the empty piano stool in confusion.

When the first notes poured from her mouth, his own had opened in astonishment. To say her voice was beautiful would have been an understatement, and the pitch was perfect! She clearly needed training, but there was great potential there, the likes of which he had only ever heard on professional stages before. There were probably few accompaniments that would have been able to do her justice. She could truly put both the Institute, and himself even more prominently on the map if she worked hard enough. He had had to admit her there and then. Anything else would have been folly.

And yet now she sat before him. Mute. He wasn't sure whether to rage or scream at the loss of such a potential credit to the place.

"I remember. If I were to speak honestly, I'd have to say I have never heard talent such as yours in a student, Miss Day. May I ask, what could have happened to rob the world of such a voice?"

Christine closed her eyes to get a hold over her reeling mind. She bent over the pad and wrote.

_It was a fire._

He studied her.

"I'm afraid I am at a loss. Forgive me, but I see no scars on your throat."

_My throat wasn't burned. It was mostly damage from the smoke and heat. Screaming didn't help either._

"I'm so sorry. Do you . . . is there any chance of-"

"The doctors have assured us many times that her speaking voice will recover. Her singing voice will undoubtedly require more training than before, but there is every chance that it will be back to normal as well."

Christine looked at her adoptive mother with the hint of tears in her eyes. She knew it was fruitless to argue. Much as she loved her, Madame Giry was a dancer. It would be difficult for her to understand how wrong she was, no matter what the doctors said or how much her voice healed.

"I do not wish to be harsh, but do you have any idea how long this healing process will take? It would be difficult to justify you remaining here this year if you were to spend most of it in silence."

She had already begun writing before he was halfway through his question.

_They said it would take another month. Two at the most. Till then I can focus on the theory. Take notes of everything during class. Then put it into practice when I'm able._

He nodded.

"Very well, Miss Day. It is one of my practices to randomly review my students every now and again. Helps keep them on their toes. I shall postpone any review of yours for three months. Provided of course, that you give sufficient proof that you are keeping up with all the non-performance related aspects of the course. Is that understood?"

It was her turn to nod.

"I have one last question for you: why did you write that you were mute? Why not that you simply couldn't speak at present?"

She looked at him steadily for a while before finally answering.

_It's been two months. It feels like I'm mute. Besides, you got the message._

"Indeed. If you have any difficulties with the class, you must let me know."

"Child, do you wish Professor Gardiner to explain to the others in your class?" He looked at the ballet mistress in confusion.

"Her situation has meant that she has suffered ridicule before. I would not have her endure that here."

_They already know that I can't speak. I don't want anything else to come out._

"Surely it would make it easier if people were made to understand?" Gardiner argued.

_They can't understand. I don't want their pity. It'll be easier this way._

"If you're sure? Very well then, I will respect your wishes in this. Thank you for your time ladies, and allow me to wish you a speedy and full recovery, Miss Day."

She shook his hand gently before allowing her guardian to lead her away. Before she was through the door, however, Professor Gardiner stopped them.

"Forgive me, Miss Day. I know after the class and this conversation, you must be wanting to leavehere as soon as possible; but your audition has reminded me of something. If I may ask, what is your mother's name?"

Christine's brow furrowed a little in confusion before one of the posters caught her eye and she realised where the question had come from.

_Catherine Day_

"I do beg your pardon, it's just that you bear an uncanny resemblance to-" Christine held up her hand to silence him and mouthed, '_I know_' before leaving.

* * *

Once they reached an empty corridor, she leant against a wall and covered her face with her hands. Madame Giry knew she wasn't crying. She would not allow that in so public a place, even though no one else was around. 

No one who could be seen anyway. She could feel his presence, just as she had felt his curious gaze in Gardiner's office. She put her hand on Christine's left shoulder in comfort. The girl eventually took a deep breath and pushed away the few strands of hair that had come loose from her bun.

"You know some will mock?" She nodded.

"They will ask how you can claim to be a soprano." She nodded.

"What will you do?" She made no move.

"This is your answer?" She nodded. Madame Giry eyed her critically.

"If you will insist on shutting yourself away, might I make a suggestion? You have other colours in your wardrobe besides black." At Christine's look of outrage, she held up her hand and continued, "The fact that you are in mourning could only be missed by one who is too self-absorbed to see past the end of their nose. There are shadows enough in this place. You need not be added to their number."

Christine looked away.

"You know I mean no disrespect. I speak only out of concern for one I count as a daughter."

Christine looked at her. The tears more prominent now, though they did not fall. She wrapped her arms around her second mother and clung tight. Madame Giry wrapped one arm about her in return.

"I miss him too, child."

She allowed them this moment of shared grief. Christine grieved for the loss of her father and her music. Antoinette grieved for the three lives that had been lost: Catherine, Charles, and now Christine. For truly, she did not live anymore.

She looked to the shadows and caught the eyes that were hidden there. He surveyed the scene before him and returned the pleading look a moment before allowing the two women their privacy.


	8. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 7

He had hidden himself behind one of the walls of Gardiner's office. He had positioned himself so that he could see inside and look at her half of the conversation. He had heard and seen everything, except her for her face.

Two weeks of watching her, and he had seen much in her facial expressions. Had he been able to then, perhaps he might have understood more. Still, there was much he had been able to learn.

At least he now knew why there had been doubts about her place. He wondered about this.

She had gotten in without an interview. Such conduct was unheard of at the Ravelle. Gardiner could be a fool at times. He shuddered as he remembered Ms. Guidacelli's audition, and the praise that had been lavished on her ridiculously when she was out of earshot. She had only needed two interviews to secure her place, and she had the backing of a famous – albeit undeservingly so – mother. Yet this girl had gotten in without any of that. He had skipped a day of auditions to recover from Ms. Guidacelli's. Obviously that had been the day she had tried out, otherwise he would have heard her.

Her voice should have recovered within two months. He had to hear it.

True, most of the 'talent' that came out of the Ravelle was, to his mind, mediocre at best and remained so – seeing as most chose to milk the name on their degrees as much as they could. This girl however, had Gardiner's approval without question – certainly no one else would have been able to stay for so long whilst incapable of performing. She also had Madame Giry's full support. A rare thing, no matter what the relation.

He considered what had been said about her: _I know of no one else who lives for music._ Her dedication was clear if she was willing to go through the inevitable ridicule. The world was indeed cruel.

_You are not the only one to know pain._

Those words returned to him unbidden. She had endured ridicule before, yet she accepted the probability of it again. She had lost her father two months ago, yet she behaved as though it were only two days. She did not make a show of her grief. With the exception of the time he and Giry had found her on the floor, he had not seen her cry once. He had seen the tear tracks down one side of her face, but nothing more.

He got the impression that 'pain' was not sufficient enough a word for her grief. He knew the signs well.

He decided. He would watch over this child.

He knew only the pain of rejection, the loss of what could have been. The loss of an obviously loving parent was not something he understood. The loss of everything else, the solitude that came with it, he knew all too well.

He had followed Giry and her – what did she call her? – second daughter as they left, had watched as the girl had stopped and allowed her guard to fall. He had seen her coming and going over the last fortnight, the change in her once the door was shut was immense. And it was the same one he saw when she lowered her hands. All the light was gone from her face. She looked like she carried a burden on her shoulders that was beyond her years, and it told upon her.

As she fell into Giry's embrace, he watched dumbfounded. She had been so strong in the theatre when she had been mocked before the entire class. She had answered Gardiner's questions honestly and calmly, even though he had obviously touched upon a few painful subjects. She had walked out of there with the quiet grace he had admired when he first saw her.

And then she broke.

It was not a breakdown as complete as the last one he had seen, but it was severe nevertheless. In all the years he had known Antoinette Giry, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had allowed herself to display any kind of sadness outside of her home or family.

Before she had brought this girl into his world anyway.

She had looked at him. He understood what she was silently asking for. It took him a few moments before he recovered from the shock enough to slip away and allow them to grieve with dignity.

Giry clearly still grieved for her lost friend, even whilst she supported her charge. The girl, however, was lost to her sorrow and pain, no matter how well she hid it.

Yes, he would watch over her. He knew pain like that, and he knew there was far more to it than he had learnt thus far. His curiosity was piqued far too much over his houseguest, and such distractions simply would not do now, would they?

Perhaps tonight he would attempt to satisfy one of his curiosities.

_She hears the music in your house. It is the only place where she can begin to heal properly._

He had not played a note within those walls in all the time that she had been living there, whether she was in the house or not.

If someone could hear his music, then it was time he played again.

If she could hear him, then he would not disappoint.

If music could help her heal, then his would certainly be beneficial.

If she needed a protector, then he would be watching.

And in return: if she lived for music; then she would live for him.

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry this one's a bit shorter, but like with Chapter 4, the ones centred on one character will be a bit shorter. On a positive note, it was from the pen/mind of a dear friend of ours. There is more to come. Thanks again to TalithaJ, Busanda, Lady Winifred, and a special thanks to CarolROI for their latest reviews and support. Nearly ready for a double update guys. Thanks to all my readers as well. Nedjmet.**


	9. Chapter 8

**Authors Note: 6 reviews for the last chapter (at time of writing)! You guys are brilliant! As promised, here is an extra chapter for today as my way of saying thank you. I'm glad we got over ten, I didn't really want to leave you hanging on Chapter 7 for too long. It struck me as being a bit short. Anyway, thank you to Busanda, TalithaJ, Soignante, Amita, Mildetryth and a special thank you to CarolROI for your continuing support. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 8

She dropped her bag by the door, shut it and leaned back, exhausted.

She had known the day would be trying, but she had not been prepared for how thoroughly draining the whole experience was. She dreaded tomorrow; facing a class of people who thought she was a mute – a soprano mute at that. It would have made her laugh, or smile at least were it not for the fact that only the sickest mind could find her situation amusing.

At least this time, her fears had a face she could recognise. She'd done this before, she could do it again.

She just wished with every fibre of her being that she didn't have to.

Madame Giry had not said a word to her since their embrace. She didn't have to. They had shared their grief since her mother had died. She was the one who came closest to understanding. When she had lost her mother, Madame had lost the person she counted as a sister, the one who had comforted her when her husband had died. She knew that loss well, which is why she had been able to comfort both father and daughter. Now her father had gone home – she couldn't say or think of it in any other way without breaking down – Madame was her only source of comfort. There was nothing and no one else that did not torment her, either through intent or ignorance.

She opened her eyes and looked around.

The house really was perfect for her. It spoke of another life that was probably lost, save for what was within these four walls. As she wondered about that, she was able to concentrate on something else. It was not a comfort exactly, more of a distraction. But at least it was something.

She was snapped out of her reverie by a rather enthusiastic somebody knocking on her door.

It wasn't exactly a surprise to find Meg on the other side; she was the only other person who knew she lived here, after all. That, and her being sent over was predictable. Madame was not opposed to using her daughter to check up on Christine – a fact which did not escape either of the two girls, as well she knew. This act was not begrudged her though; Christine didn't mind being mothered every now and again, at least that's what she told them. In reality, she would probably let herself waste away without someone to care.

"Hey, hon. Still intact?" Christine gave a half smile and rolled her eyes.

"That good, huh? Well, move over, I have ice cream and cookies seeing as you _still_ haven't managed to make your world-famous brownies." Christine smiled, let Meg in and gave her a one-armed hug as she passed.

Meg had been like the sister she'd never had for as long as she could remember, even with all the travelling their respective parents had done for work over the years. There was no one else who could read her mood as intuitively as Meg, and there was no one else she could count on as much for a chocolate fix when the need arose.

Christine followed Meg through to the kitchen where she dug out dishes and spoons. Meg started to take out the food and handed Christine a pad and pen as she did.

"So, spill. Give me one good reason why, after two weeks you still haven't made a batch of your famous brownies, even though you told us you were pretty much settled after three days."

_I've been getting the feel of the place._

"And that takes two weeks? I told you: you should have let me give you the tour. I do have a two year advantage on you."

They shared a smile; then Meg's eyes turned serious. They didn't often do that, but the Girys had found themselves doing a lot of things they would otherwise only rarely do since Christine had been put into their care.

"What's the real reason?" Christine kept her eyes down as Meg read:

_It's a gas oven._

Gas ovens sometimes had to be lit manually instead of electrically, and either way, you had to wait until the flames were burning properly before trying to use them.

Christine couldn't look at the flames. Most of the time, she couldn't even cope with candles without hyperventilating – not exactly a pleasant experience for someone with a severely damaged throat.

"It still bothers you, huh?"

She nodded.

"How bad was class, really?"

_I guess it could have been worse. I was only humiliated for a few minutes. Not looking forward to tomorrow._

"Maman told me about the arrangement you made. Is the professor OK?"

_I think the shock value got me a bit more sympathy and leeway from him. I think he'll be alright. I'm just worried he might talk too much about it._

"What's so bad about that? Christine, if people know, the chances are they won't bother you as much."

_I don't need their pity, their attempts to understand. If they're going to torment me, then I'd rather they do it properly._

"Who says they won't just leave you alone?"

_If any do, they'll be a minority. I'm a mute singer at a prestigious institution that's nearly impossible to get into. Do the math._

Meg handed Christine a bowl of warm cookies and ice cream, heavy on the ice cream – it was easier on her throat. The two made their way into the living room.

"Wow!" Meg looked around appreciatively. When Christine had had her attack, Meg had only seen the kitchen and her room. She hadn't been in any of the other rooms since helping her move in. The transformation was pretty incredible.

Other than being cleaned, there were no major changes, but pictures, ornaments, cushions and the like had been placed around the room lending it a homely feel that distinctly bespoke of Christine. It was so little, yet it did so much that Meg found herself staring for quite a while.

At least until the back of a rather cold spoon landed on her bare leg, which earned her friend a very indignant yelp. She moved to pounce on Christine, but saw the pad of paper raised in defence and read:

_I thought it was my job to be the silent one_

She looked at Christine's cheeky grin of amusement. And pounced anyway.

They fought as only sisters can for a few minutes until they ended on the floor where they stopped in an unspoken truce. Meg was giggling hysterically until she looked over at Christine. She was holding her sides and shaking. Meg crawled over to her and anxiously tilted her head up so she could see. She stared at her adoptive sister. Her shaking was from silent laughter!

Christine soon recovered enough to realise her mirth was unanswered and looked back at Meg in question.

"I thought something was wrong. It's just that I haven't seen you laugh in ages."

Christine looked at her for a minute, then reached for her pen and paper which had managed to end up underneath the couch.

_I needed it._

"Well, I'm not going to argue with that one. Besides, it's nice to know that I have the power of laughter to play with."

_Yeah, I think they used to have a term for people like you._

"What?" Meg rolled her eyes, knowing she was setting herself up for something.

_Court Jesters_

"WHAT! Well, my lady I shall endeavour to provide laughter, mirth, merriment and mayhem whenever thou dost desire, nay, hast need of it from hereon. Have I the approval of my lady?"

_Whether you did or not, you'd bring mayhem anyway._

"Why you . . ." Meg pounced again, although Christine managed to wrestle herself away this time.

"That's my girl."

_Much as I hate to burst your bubble. It wasn't just you._

"What wasn't just me?"

_I got in. They're letting me stay. It finally sunk in._

"So you're gonna stay here, then?"

_I couldn't stay anywhere else._

"I think if you asked for a transfer or something, then they'd find somewhere."

_I wouldn't stay anywhere else._

"But Maman could-" Christine held up her hand, the only way she could interrupt Meg - short of smacking her on the head with her pad.

_Mother asked me where I wanted to live. I told her somewhere where I could be alone, undisturbed. Somewhere solitary and private. She arranged for me to live here. She didn't even suggest anywhere else. Why?_

"You're happy here?"

_I couldn't be happier anywhere else. No offence._

She had enjoyed her time at the Girys. It was almost like having a family again, seeing as she did count them as such. But there was too much that she had to deal with to be around them permanently, and she cared too much about them for them to have to put up with all that on top of everything else.

Meg sighed in resignation.

"I think we need to talk."


	10. Chapter 9

**Authors Note: Thanks to Soignante, Mildetryth, Erik'sLittleLotte (love your screen name!), Busanda and CarolROI for your reviews. One more for another double update guys! In the meantime, enjoy! Nedjmet**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 9

_Why don't you want me to live here?_

"Christine, don't take this the wrong way, but I just don't think it's a good idea for you to be here."

_Why? I'm managing fine. The house is perfect for me._

"If you promise not to interrupt, I'll explain."

Christine put her pad and paper down and looked at Meg, who promptly felt awful. She had seen the calm in her adoptive sister's face when she'd written about the house. And she saw the old wariness that was creeping into her features once again as she waited.

"You know with Maman's job and the dance workshops I took, that I've been here for two years now? It's as long as most people get to attend for, and it's long enough to get to know a place. Plus with what I hear and overhear from Maman, you have to trust that I know what I'm talking about. OK?"

Christine nodded. Meg took a breath, searching for the best way to go about this.

"There was a lot of fuss when this place opened five years ago, what with the press, all the applicants, critics and everyone wanting to see if Ravelle could live up to it's claims. That's why nobody paid too much attention when sheets of music or ballet slippers or whatever went missing, and when notes kept showing up in the dean's and theatre managers' offices telling them what they should and shouldn't be doing.

"They started to get a bit worked up when that was all still happening after a few months, and it was getting progressively worse. The notes became more threatening. At first they were ignored as a sick joke. Then the threats were carried out. Sets were being deliberately damaged, the fire system set off sprinklers during theatre design class which would ruin a term's work. Then people started getting locked in rooms, falling down stairs and swearing they'd been pushed. That's when everyone started talking about a ghost."

"The notes were all signed _O. G. _- Opera Ghost." At Christine's look of confusion, she elaborated, "The first year, they wanted to make a big impression with the critics, so they adapted _The Merry Widow_ for their main production.

"Anyway, they obviously started taking the notes seriously, which is why you'll be told to stay away from Box 5 on your tour. I know you were taken on one at your audition, but you get another during Basic Theatre Management. That's one of his demands: whenever there's a performance, Box 5 on the grand tier in the main theatre is always reserved for the Opera Ghost. He even gets a salary every month as well, and he always passes notes to the teachers making _suggestions_ about their classes and performances. And woe betide anyone who ignores him."

_Why are you telling me? What does it have to do with the house?_

"Christine, this is _his_ house." Christine's mouth dropped in shock. She blinked a few times in bewilderment before a look of understanding began to cross her face.

_Is that why no-one comes near here? I haven't heard any cars or people except for you and mother._

"Mmhm. This is his house. It was built before the institute, and although they bought it as accommodation, no one has ever stayed here. They say that a few people were listed as living here in the first year, but they soon transferred into other halls, and no one's been here since."

Christine's hands shook a little as she wrote.

_Why did your mother arrange for me to live here? How?_

Meg knew she was in trouble now. Christine only distanced herself from people like that when she was really upset. She had only referred to Meg's mother as such during heated arguments – after which she apologised profusely.

"Maman works for the ghost. I mean, she isn't paid by him or anything, but she's the one who always reads his notes out whenever they have to be, and she delivers his salary. She doesn't know that I know that; I wasn't supposed to see, but I did. And she looks after Box 5.

"Like you said, this house is perfect for you. She probably arranged it because of that. I don't know how. But I know she wouldn't have even let you near the place unless it was OK. With him, I mean."

Christine dropped the pen and paper and closing her eyes, she leaned back against the couch. Meg watched her a moment, expecting to see the tell-tale signs to suggest tears being held back, or a blast of temper to erupt. For all that she had always been quiet, Christine certainly had a temper on her when provoked enough.

She jumped a little as Christine sat bolt upright and began to scribble furiously.

_It all makes sense! It's a man's house. It's filled with music. It's by itself. No one's come here, no disturbances, not even to see who the new girl is. It's his house and he's keeping them away._

Meg read it, looked into her beaming face and said the one thing that came to mind.

"Huh?"

_He's letting me live here._

"I don't get it."

_Whatever mother said or did to persuade him, he's giving me my solitude. He's keeping everyone away, but he's not done anything to make me want to move out. Nothing missing or broken, no pranks, no disturbances. He's letting me stay._

It dawned on Meg.

"Everyone else moved out after a few days. You've been here for two weeks."

Christine nodded vigorously, then stopped and put her hand to her throat. Meg reached over to her.

"You OK?"

_Yeah. I forget sometimes. It's fine._

"Christine, even if you're right – and I think you are – even if he is letting you stay here, I still don't like it. I've been here for two years now, I've seen the things he does, the fear he puts into everyone. I don't want him having a hold like that over you. If he's letting you stay for Maman, that's fine. I just don't want it to be for anything else."

_Meg, please don't make me afraid to be here. I couldn't be anywhere else._

"I know. Just, look after yourself, OK? And try not to get on the wrong side of him."

_How?_

"I don't know exactly. Keep doing whatever it is you do. If you haven't heard anything out of him so far, then he probably doesn't mind. No one really knows how to get on his good side. It's more a case of correcting anything that gets you on his bad one."

_Very reassuring._

"Seriously, if this is the first you've heard about him, then you'll probably be fine. I just wanted you to be careful."

Christine couldn't think of anything to say; the whole situation was just too crazy to even think about properly. So she did the only thing she could think of, and gave Meg another one-armed hug.

"What's the latest from the doctors?"

_My throat should be fully healed in a couple of months at the most – as long as I don't have any more nasty coughing fits._

"And . . .the other doctors?" Meg asked quietly andhesitantly. Christine looked at her blankly, before her features sank a bit.

_Healing nicely. Slower than I should, but that's to be expected. The surgery's scheduled for the start of the holidays. No should see the bandages that way._

"Does it . . . hurt, still?"

_Physically, only if it's knocked. Otherwise, only when I see._

Meg hugged her tightly again, being careful as always to avoid her right shoulder.

"Look on the bright side: at least you've finally become a whiz with make-up. I might even let you do me on my next date."

Christine gave her a watery smile.

"You gonna be OK, hun?"

She looked at Meg, and saw what she was asking, and everything that she was trying not to ask.

She nodded.

Meg regarded her a few moments, before nodding in return.

"Good. 'Cause much as I love it, if I have to do too many more ice cream missions, Maman will have my head. I swear, she knows even if I so much as put on half a pound in the wrong place. If I have to hear her lecture about a ballerina's figure one more time, I'll probably be able to pass an anatomy degree."

_Well, it's not as if you HAVE to bring ice cream every time._

"Christine Catherine Antoinette Daaë! Don't you even dare suggest such a thing!" She exclaimed, doing her best impression of a horrified Madame Giry.

Christine smiled again. Meg's phone beeped. She didn't even look at it, just gathered her things and started to head towards the door. Christine protested when she offered to help with the dishes.

"Alright, alright. I know. Making me face Maman's inquisition all the sooner."

_The sooner it starts the sooner it finishes._

"Thanks." She replied dryly. They exchanged another hug at the door.

"Take care of yourself, OK?"

'Thank you' Christine mouthed as Meg left, causing tears to jump into her eyes quickly.

* * *

She leaned her back against the door, much as she had done earlier, except this time it was with a much lighter heart. 

She looked at the stairs that loomed in front of her. She saw the door that was hidden amongst the panelling. She remembered quizzing Madame Giry about it, who had merely replied that the key was lost - after recovering from surprise that the door had actually been spotted. She shouldn't have been surprised though. Christine had grown up with so many stories about secret passageways and hidden doors, that finding one was not as difficult as it perhaps should have been.

She thought about the door that was locked on the 1st floor. As far as she could tell, it was a door to either one very large, or several rooms. The key for that was also missing.

She thought about all that Meg had said.

She hadn't paid too much attention to the rooms, as she had more space than she really needed anyway. But based on what she knew now? Perhaps the keys were not so much missing, as she wasn't meant to have them. It was strange though; that a ghost should choose both a cellar and a first floor room.

She looked at the door to the cellar again; then moved to the desk that stood in the front room. She rooted through the various sheets of paper there until she found what she was looking for. Hopefully it wouldn't be considered too childish. She took up a fountain pen and wrote in her neatest script:

_O. G._

_Thank you._

_Christine_

She paused a moment, wondering over whether to write her surname. She didn't want to confuse him any. Can one confuse a ghost? She left it as it was. It felt a bit more personal anyway.

She folded it and placed it half under the small crack at the foot of the door. It would be difficult to fit more than a single sheet of paper under there anyway. She was tempted to sit and wait to see if it moved, but then realised there would be about as much point in that as waiting to see if Santa was coming.

She went back to the front room to clear the dishes away, hoping that her little note would be understood fully.

She put the dishes in the sink to wash and put the rubber gloves on before rolling up her sleeves, knowing that her eyes would be straying to the crack underneath the stairs whenever she walked past.

Especially if the note was actually received.


	11. Chapter 10

**Authors Note: Thanks once again to Soignante, Mildetryth and Busanda. All my other readers might want to thank them as well. We cleared 20 reviews, so here's Chapter 10 as promised. You guys are brilliant! I might have to up the review targets at this rate, or I'll run out of chapters. Thanks, and enjoy! Nedjmet

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.**

Chapter 10

"You told her."

Antoinette didn't have to ask. Even if Meg wasn't an open book when it came to secrets that involved disobeying her mother, Antoinette still knew her daughter too well to have even thought otherwise.

"She needed to know." She replied, walking past her mother and up to her room.

"She _needs_ to be in a place where she can start to heal."

"It's not a hospital and she's had enough of those anyway." Meg flung her coat onto her bed to emphasise the point.

"That is not what I am speaking of and if you weren't so determined to flout my judgement, you would see that."

"How can you let her stay in that house, Maman? How can you let her stay in _his_ house?"

Antoinette moved quietly and – in spite of her cane – with the grace of a true ballerina over to Meg's coat and hung it up, knowing full well it would end up on the floor otherwise. It also gave time for her fuming daughter to simmer down enough to listen for more than five seconds.

"First of all, _that_ house is exactly what she was looking for. She required solitude and privacy beyond that which the school dormitories allowed," Meg smirked inwardly at her mother's old fashioned view of the halls of residence – it was so typical of her, "and beyond what we could provide."

This last point was made with a knowing look. Meg flinched a little, knowing all too well how much of her company she had pressed upon Christine in an attempt to raise her spirits. It wasn't until she'd moved out that the realisation had dawned that perhaps that wasn't the right approach for someone so quiet around all save those she had lost.

"Secondly, I am not _letting_ her stay there. You know it would not be my place. I merely gave my approval."

"So it is his house!" exclaimed Meg, triumphantly.

"Child, before you crow too loudly, you would do well to remember that silence is the more prudent course when dealing with those who tend to hear all."

This served to subdue Meg enough that she didn't dance around her room. Instead she perched herself on the end of her bed. Antoinette joined her and began brushing her daughter's hair from her face before continuing to stroke it a little.

"You think I don't know of your curiosity, Marguerite? I know you wonder as I read the notes. I know you have tried to follow me with them. I know you saw me with his salary five months ago. And you know as well as I who claims that house as their own."

Meg looked at her mother startled. Moments as intimate as this between them were rare and highly valued. It was when all the barriers came down, and Madame Giry was a mother instead of a teacher, and it was when Meg was Marguerite, her daughter.

"Why did you arrange it? Why there? If anything happens to her-"

"Do you think I would allow Christine to live anywhere that would put her in harm's way? It was no easy thing to arrange, but she is in no danger there, of that I am certain."

"How can you be sure? I've seen-"

"You have seen carelessness and heard the gossip of the other ballerinas. Christine is safe, no matter what you believe. I would not allow her to remain there alone if I thought otherwise."

"Yes, Maman."

"How did she react?"

"She seemed afraid when I told her whose house it was. But then she thought about it and she seemed . . . happy?"

"Happy? She has barely smiled these last months."

"I think she was worried about her place, along with everything else. She smiled quite a few times tonight."

Meg's voice broke on the latter sentence, as tears welled up in the ballet mistress' usually stoic demeanour.

"What did she say?"

"That it made sense. It was a man's house, filled with music that nobody ever came near. And that he was letting her stay."

"What?"

"I know, I didn't get it either. But she hadn't heard anything about him until tonight, so he can't object to her being there, and she thinks that because no one goes there, he's keeping them away – he's giving her solitude."

"She may be reading a little too much into that, but certainly his lack of presence is promising."

"Maman?"

"Enough. She is safe and will continue to be so. I trust I do not have to tell you not to speak of this."

"No, Maman."

For all of her curiosity, Meg was not one to go about inviting the wrath of the Opera Ghost on her own head. Besides, if she kept things to herself, perhaps this conversation would be the first of many when she would be taken into her mother's confidence on the matter.

"You say she was happy?" Meg nodded. "You did well tonight, child. There are few now who have the talent to make her smile as you do."

It was Meg's turn for tears to brim. It was rare for her mother to so openly praise anyone, and there were few compliments she had ever treasured more than the one she gave now.

"Oh, and Meg?"

"Yes, Maman?"

"I expect you to put an extra thirty minutes on your jog tomorrow. I noticed a tub of ice cream was gone from the freezer."

"Maman!"

"Unless you would like me to make it an hour? I happen to know that one of my cupboards is a little too empty as well."

"No, Maman. Thirty minutes."

Antoinette nodded and left her daughter to rest. She'd need to be up early. Her run before class was already an hour and a half as it was. Ordinarily, it would have been a full hour extra for something like that, but today had been no ordinary day. She was not so soft as to forgo the extra exercise altogether, a dancer's body needed to be much more disciplined than that! Oh for the days when such things as ice cream were a luxury, and disciplining one's body for dance was as natural as breathing. . .


	12. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:Once again, thanks to Soignante, Mildetryth, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ and Busanda for their latest reviews. You guys really make my day. Thanks, and enjoy! I think this chapter will give you some of the things you've been asking for. Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 11

"Sorelli shows much potential - provided you can teach her to take more pride in her dancing and less in herself - and it would help if she actually listened to the music on occasion. As for that girl Jammes, it would be wise to make sure she does not secure a lead. What talent she might have, I suspect will be wasted within a few more years."

The voice made her jump as soon as she had shut the door. She collected herself before locking it and turning around.

"True. I'm afraid she started too late in life, or she could have been a fine dancer. Sorelli does think of herself above her standing, but most of them do when they first arrive."

"Until Madame Giry has taught them their place." The smile in the voice was slight, yet evident and Antoinette was tempted to offer one in return. It had been a long day of teaching, and she still had work to do. She had thought her office would provide some peace and quiet, but should have known better. The girls' conversation yesterday was unlikely to have gone unnoticed.

"Perhaps your charge is the exception to the rule since she had already been under your influence before coming. But that cannot be. Your daughter does not remember her place so readily."

"Meg is as carefree as her father and she inherited her will from me. She is not an easy spirit to control, nor would I wish to entirely. Am I to take it from your critique of my parenting skills that you were eavesdropping on my daughters' conversation last night?"

"Surely it is not eavesdropping when one hears things in their own home?"

"In a private conversation, yes it is."

"Madame, you would do well to remember that your daughter is not a presence that is easy to miss, and that your charge is residing in my home at my goodwill."

"And you would do well to remember the reputation of the Opera Ghost that you are so determined to instil into everyone. It was inevitable that Meg should be concerned with the situation and speak to Christine."

"Yet you put no words in her mouth?" The icy steel in the disembodied voice was definitely unmistakeable.

"Meg is capable enough without anyone needing to do that. I have warned her time and again against speculating about you or speaking of you to anyone. She has fear enough of you and respect enough for me to heed my advice – except when it comes to Christine. She behaves according to her heart. Just as Christine is like my second daughter, she has always been the sister that Meg never had."

"Very touching. This girl does seem to have a talent for bringing out your more protective qualities."

Antoinette looked to where the voice appeared to be, and indeed, did usually come from.

"Oh?"

She saw the startlingly white half-mask emerge and watched as a tall figure dressed completely and impeccably in black stepped out from the shadows in the back corner of her room.

"You have been watching her." It was not a question, yet her voice demanded an answer.

"You piqued my curiosity, Madame. I am not used to having it go so thoroughly unsated."

She remained silent, knowing something was bothering him, but knowing equally that asking him was the last way to find out what that something was.

"Why is she going by the name of Day?"

She looked at him in confusion.

"In class yesterday, she wrote her name as 'Day', she wrote that her mother's name was 'Catherine Day', yet when your daughter . . . reprimanded her with her full name, she called her Daaë. This is her true name?"

"Yes."

"Then why does she not use it?" The disapproval in his voice was evident.

"She applied by phone. They misheard. To save confusion, she has chosen to go by the name she is enrolled under. She does not disrespect her father's name; she chooses not to play on it."

"Is she a relation of the violinist?"

"Yes, he was her father. You knew of him?"

"I heard him perform only once. He was one of the few musicians I have heard who truly deserved such a title. So that is why you claimed she lived for music."

"Both her parents taught her about music. They never had to teach her to love it. She was a child of music."

"Was?"

"How closely have you been watching her?"

"Closely enough to try and satisfy my curiosity about the person you sent to live in my house. I have not invaded her privacy."

"I did not think you would. Tell me, does she live?"

"I doubt you have the stupidity to treat me like a fool, so I will presume there is some deeper meaning that you are failing to communicate."

"She goes through the motions of life without any spark. Until Meg told me of their conversation last night, I had not known of her to be anything close to happy since her father died. She craves solitude and shuts herself away from everything, even music, because she can no longer bear life."

"What changed last night?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said that until last night, she had not been happy. I can only assume that something changed."

"She stopped worrying about her place at Ravelle. And she believes that the Ghost does not object to her staying in the house."

"I have yet to make my presence felt by the newer members of the student body, Madame. I fail to see why she should be so presumptuous."

"You have done nothing to show that you do object."

They looked at each other for a moment: he trying to decide what make of all this, whilst she tried to read what he was thinking – knowing it was fruitless, nevertheless.

"She can stay." Antoinette's face broke into a smile that seemed to take about ten years off her.

"Thank you, my dear. This means a lot-"

"She can stay, but understand this: so long as she lives in my house, I will be watching her."

"Watching her?" The mother in Antoinette began to take over again.

"As I said, Madame: she has a talent for bringing out protective qualities. She has treated my home with respect, even when she presumed it belonged to no one. You have told me something of her circumstances and yet she possesses a dignity I would not expect in one so young. And I have yet to hear Gardiner praise a new student so well. I will be watching her. I should have thought you would be glad you didn't have to worry about her safety."

"I did not once think I had anything worry about on that score. As her guardian though, I must ask you two things."

"Ask."

"Have you been in any contact with her at all?"

"No."

"Then what has brought about this resolve?"

He brought a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table to her. She recognised the yellow roses that watermarked the paper, and the scent of roses she would know anywhere as Christine's.

"She has been in contact with me."

"How . . ?"

"It was half-tucked underneath the cellar door." She read the short missive with horror in her eyes.

"I told her only that the key was missing."

"She appears to be a rather bright girl." She looked up at him.

"She will know it is gone."

"And?"

"What will you do?"

"Do?" Since the direct approach was failing, she tried again.

"She understands the meaning of flowers. Of roses anyway. Do not do anything to hurt her."

"I have already assured you of her safety, Madame. Do you doubt my word?"

"No. But you do not know her. She can be hurt easily, and I am not speaking merely in physical terms. So long as I can help it, I will not let that happen. She has been through more than enough"

"Very well."

She slid the note back to him, and watched the care he took to fold it only where the creases already existed, then tuck it safely away in his pocket. He turned to leave, but was stopped before he disappeared back into the shadows.

"Do you mean to help her?" He paused a moment, debating on whether or not he should simply leave. He held too much respect for Giry to leave her when she allowed desperation to enter her voice like that.

"We shall see."

The shadows enveloped him as he entered the hidden passageway. The Institute was full of the things, but then again, he had made sure of that when it was being built, just as he had made sure that none knew of them. There were some of the more long-serving members of staff whoknew that they were there, of course, but where they were and where they went: only Giry knew the handful that were necessary should she need to contact him in an emergency. There were few in his life who he had trusted as much as her. That's why he had shown her the small number of tunnels that were not riddled with his traps.

As he approached one of the few torches ensconced in the passageway, he paused. He did not need the light; there was nothing about the place that he did not know like the back of his hand. Since he was passing it though, he could not resist taking out the letter again.

He had been hidden in the dining room, which Christine had yet to go in except to clean. Had she decided to show Little Giry her work, it would have been easy enough to avoid their sight. He had positioned himself once again so that he could watch the words she wrote, as well as hear the other side of the conversation. It was a good thing she wrote clearly, or even his keen vision would have had difficulties with such a task.

He had enjoyed seeing the two girls banter and fight – though he would never admit to such a thing. He had been somewhat surprised by Little Giry's reaction to Christine's amusement though. Yet it was true: in all the time he had watched her, she had never smiled. He envied the younger Giry that power she seemed to posses.

The realisation had shocked him. He was the Opera Ghost. He struck fear into the hearts of grown men; he was not one to care about make young girls laugh!

When the conversation had turned towards him, he had been curious to see her reaction, but his view was restricted by the couch, as she was now sat on the floor following their little brawl. He listened with some pride as Giry recounted what he had done. He remembered the day he had set off the sprinklers. He had told the managers that anything other than a contemporary set for _Showboat_ simply was not acceptable, but they had refused to listen. The vain attempts by the students to protect their work was still rather diverting. They really had resembled headless chickens – very appropriate for the distinguished Ravelle Institute!

He was surprised to learn just how much of his working relationship with her mother Little Giry had, but given that she had yet to be any real nuisance, he let the matter drop. Antoinette would not let her only daughter do anything to invoke his anger anyway. When Christine's hand had gone to her throat, he was concerned. How much damage had it received if that was all it took to cause pain?

Wait. Concerned? Him?

The girl, it seemed, also possessed a talent for disruption. And yet she made such an effort to remain invisible?

These thoughts distracted him, and it was not until the conversation had turned to ice cream missions, that his attention was brought back into focus by the sheer stupidity of the topic. He berated himself for allowing himself to become distracted so easily. What was it about this girl? Blasted Giry for making him so curious!

He had been astonished to learn that she was a Daaë. If that made her who he thought, then it was no wonder she had turned her back on music. There were few she could have known of who made music the way Charles Daaë did, few who could have taught her so well, few who could have made music play such a role in her life. A great loss indeed.

When she had begun writing the note, he had almost laughed. He wondered how much more there was to discover that they each had in common. When she came back into the living room empty handed, however, he was curious – yet again! – as to where the note had gone.

He saw the pad she had been writing on earlier and examined it as she was in the kitchen. At least now the conversation made more sense. Needless to say her responses intrigued him.

He did not have to wait long for her to retire for the night. He never did.

Had he been a lady a hundred years ago, he would surely have fainted at the sight waiting at his door. She couldn't have meant to write a note for him! After knowing of him for the length of one conversation?

He opened it now as carefully as he had then. It was written on paper covered in yellow roses, which also bore their scent. It was a simple note.

_O. G._

_Thank you._

_Christine_

No last name? She had paid attention as to how he addressed his notes. So she acknowledged that it was his house and he could have been listening then as well as during class?

What was she thanking him for though? For letting her live there? For leaving her in peace?

For helping to give her happiness?

The only person he had ever done that for, was the one to whom she bore an agonisingly close resemblance. Even Gardiner had spotted it.

_She understands the meaning of flowers. Of roses anyway._

And she was sending _him_ a message of friendship.

She was not concerned that she lived in a ghost's house? A ghost who could be watching? She really was an intriguing girl. One who he seemed to have much in common with.

And one who he would watch over.

Perhaps it was time for her to begin her healing.


	13. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Hey guys! I was looking at my hits counter (over 1000! You guys are fantastic! Didn't think I'd get this much interest in my first fic) and I noticed that Chapter 10 (9 of the story) doesn't have as many hits as Chapter 11 (10), which makes me wonder if some of my readers didn't notice it because of the double update. If that's the case: go back and read it! Vital plot developments contained therein that will make the rest of it a bit confusing if unread. If this isn't the case, do pardon the panicked ravings of your concerned authoress.**

**Anyway, thanks once more to Soignante, Busanda, mildetryth and Lady Winifred for their latest reviews. Here's another double update, since we cleared 30 reviews. Thanks guys! Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 12

The note was gone.

She'd looked for it as soon as she'd gone downstairs this morning. There had not been any windows or doors open. There was no way a draft could have blown it away. There were no signs of a break-in. But that was ridiculous: why would someone break into a big old house and steal a piece of paper that was stuck in a crack under the stairs?

She really was living in _his_ house. That thought had filled her mind all day. She had wondered why there weren't any forms for her to sign. Yes, Madame Giry had said she'd taken care of it, but even so, surely the resident would need to sign _something_. But she wasn't living in the usual student accommodation. She was living in his house. Whoever _he_ was.

She puzzled over all that Meg had told her; her thoughts blocking out any other attempts made to bother her that day. His methods of dealing with the Institute were certainly disturbing, and yet it seemed they were not without positive results. But to have an entire staff and student body working in fear? Surely there could be no justification for that!

Unless . . .

Christine brushed her hand along the wall again, never quite touching it. The house had been filled with music. _His_ house was filled with music. With **music**. Whoever he was, his opinion demanded respect – not because of threats, but because he _knew_.

At least, she hoped this was the case. She really didn't want to go through the hassle of moving all over again. Especially not when this house was so . . . right. There were few places now that could bring even the slightest measure of calm to her soul, and so she cherished those which she had.

She hoped her note wasn't thought of as presumptuous or childish or anything like that. She doubted the full meaning behind it was conveyed, but if he had been paying attention enough to receive it, perhaps he had been paying attention enough to understand . . .

Wait.

Was he watching her? It was his house. Was someone or something watching her every move? The solitude the house brought was apparent, but she had never truly felt alone – a feeling that was unmistakeable if one had felt it before. She had attributed this to the music she felt in the place. After all, how could a child of music be alone when she was surrounded by it?

This train of thought brought tears to her eyes. Her soul longed to hear music again; but her heart could not without being broken again – and it already lay in a shattered ruin.

The idea of having someone watching her was very worrying. But then, Mother Giry had brought her to this place, and she apparently knew this _ghost_ to a greater degree than most. She would never have given her approval if something was amiss. In fact, if something was amiss, she probably would have found herself back under the Giry roof by now. If someone was watching; then it was just a ghost.

**Just a ghost?**

_Christine, girl, what are you thinking?_

* * *

She walked wearily up the stairs. It had been another long day of dealing with stares from the students and questions from the staff. Somewhere in the mix, there had been work as well, although she may have been mistaken. 

Having to climb two flights of stairs after being so thoroughly drained almost made Christine regret choosing a bedroom on the second floor. It was a small room, but south facing, so she could see the sun for longer. Plus it looked like it would be the warmest room in the winter; and it was out of the way enough, that she did not feel like she would be trespassing if she changed it more than the other rooms. It was the one room in the house that truly felt like it was _hers_.

She had gotten into the habit of retiring early. That way, she did not have the dark of night to deal with. She had always loved the night: that was when magic came alive in all the stories she had grown up with; it was when her imagination soared. And it was when music was at its most glorious, for it was in the dark that all else faded away.

Now though, darkness was something she could not deal with easily. It brought back too many memories; and the more prominent of those memories brought nightmares. Rest was something she needed more of these days anyway, she still had much to recover from – at least that was her excuse. She tried to be asleep before darkness had fallen completely. It was one of the many measures she took to avoid the nightmares – her voice did not need the extra strain that came from all that screaming.

As she readied herself for bed, her fatigue became more apparent. It was always the way: so long as there was nothing to tempt her to rest, she could usually find the energy she needed. Of course, as soon as the idea of rest became a reality, there was little else that could occupy her mind.

Except for today.

If the note was gone, it was because someone had taken it.

If someone had taken it, presumably they had read it.

Since she hadn't heard anything, then presumably, she still had the 'seal of approval' – whatever that might be.

If Madame Giry gave her approval also, then she was safe.

If she worked for this ghost, then she would know if he was watching or not.

If he was watching, then there couldn't be any harm in it. She was still living here after all.

And so long as she could stay, then she had something she'd almost forgotten existed.

Hope.


	14. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: I am so sorry to do this, but I am officially raising the review quota for double updates. It's just that you guys have been so wonderful with your reviews, that I've almost run out of chapters, which means we could well hit another target and I wouldn't have anything to post. I'd rather stick with a regular posting rate and give you good chapters that have been properly edited, than end up rushing things - and at the rate we've been going, I seem to be double updating every day. So whilst I'm sorry to do this (I don't want to look greedy, because I do appreciate your feedback), I will now do double updates for every 15 reviews that I get i.e. Next one's when we hit 45. I hope this chapter makes up for that though: it's something a lot of you have been asking for.**

**Thanks again to Soignante, Lady Winifred, mildetryth, Busanda, CarolROI and Erik'sLittleLotte once again for their reviews. If anyone's getting tired of reading this, sorry, but I don't get tired of reading reviews, and I certainly don't stop appreciating them. Anyway, on with the story, enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 13

Had anyone looked for signs of life in the darkened house, the most they might have found was a sleeping girl. No spiders, no mice. The place was too spotlessly clean for that.

Had anyone looked closer, they would have wondered at the shadow that moved so silently and effortlessly – a shadow that had neither source nor light to come from. A shadow that had a distinctly human shape. They would have wondered how it managed to appear out of nowhere, and disappear so effortlessly through the door that had no key.

Had anyone looked, they would have thought it a ghost.

Had anyone looked, they would not have been far wrong.

He had waited until he knew she would be asleep. Even though she retired before nightfall, he did not want to take any chances. It would not do for rumours about the ghost to circulate that he had not deliberately crafted – at least no more than they already did. Besides, whatever illusions she had about the place, he was not about to dispel them.

What was it about this girl? Was it the pain and sorrow that almost never seemed to lift from her face? Was it the solitary existence she seemed so desperate to maintain? Was it the hardships she had obviously gone through that at times made her seem far older than her years? Was it that she claimed to hear his music even though he had not played a note within the house since she had been there?

His earlier thoughts came back, and then it struck him: she reminded him of himself. They really did have much in common.

Giry was right: he did live for music. There was little, if anything else for him – and there was nothing else that allowed him such a release from the torments he was forced to endure each day. There were few who had ever truly heard his music. There were few who he had allowed so deeply into his confidence.

She heard.

If they shared as much as he had been led to believe, then she would be in need of the music as well – and yet the silence hung so oppressively on the house! It was for this reason that, for a few brief moments, he had actually found Little Giry's earlier presence a relief. Were it not for Giry's words, he would not have been able to understand why silence reigned in music's stead.

_She says it is a music she does not know and I believe that is why she can bear it._

How could she have known his music? But now: now that she had lived with the 'echo' of it – as it had been deemed – she would recognise it, if she had truly heard.

_Anything else just reminds her of what she has lost._

The silence had gone on too long. It was time to remind her of what had not been lost.

It was time to heal.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs as he realised the irony of the situation: the Opera Ghost, the terror of Ravelle, being cautious in his own house because of a quiet girl! The freak, the demon –a healer? She had seen the beauty that was hidden within the house. Perhaps she could see . . . the idea did not seem so foolish now.

It was with these resolves, that he made his way to the first floor.

Whilst the ballet mistress had a copy of the key into the cellars, she did not possess a key for this room. Only he had that. He knew the girl must wonder about the door and what was behind it; for he had heard her footsteps pause on the landing before it many times. Yet she had done nothing to get inside. He wondered if she was always this respectful. And obedient.

He also wondered in how many more ways she was going to intrigue him whilst she lived under his roof.

He paused once the door was closed behind him and looked around. The state of the room shocked him. Since the door had remained locked, the place had not known her careful touch. He felt keenly the lack of her presence here. It should not have bothered him, as his other residence did not bear her mark. But in a house that she had so completely transformed, even though it was only with the smallest touches: the room felt . . . bleak.

It felt too much like him.

But he could not let her in. Not yet. Not until he had a greater measure of her. Until he knew whether she _heard_.

He moved silently across the wooden floor to the grand piano that took up the pride of place in the centre. He pulled back the cover that he had set over it, revealing the sleek, shiny black surface beneath. The silk barely whispered as it sank to the floor, forgotten. No thoughts within this room but thoughts of music.

He carefully lifted the lid and for a moment, lovingly caressed the black and white keys. Not playing. Not yet. A smile peeked out from the corner of his mouth. Only music could provoke such unguarded endearments from the shadow. Only music was so constant.

He turned away, moved over to the windows and opened the heavy curtains that had the room shrouded in darkness. The light of the dark washed over him, illuminating the mask, bouncing off every polished surface in the room – and given its uses, there were many. He closed his eyes briefly, savouring the stars' flickering glow and the moon's cool caress.

He thought of Christine, and wondered that she would go to such lengths to avoid such tremulous splendour.

_Christine_

Even in this room, this sanctuary of music, she still occupied his thoughts.

He brushed the dust from the stool and once again placed his hands gently on the keys.

'_She craves solitude and shuts herself away from everything, even music, because she can no longer bear life,' 'She was a child of music,' 'She hears the music in your house,' 'She says it is a music she does not know and I believe that is why she can bear it,'_

As these words circled his mind, he thought of the child asleep upstairs. He thought of her beautiful face, marred by the bitterest sorrow – the pain of loss. He thought of the one she resembled so closely: the one whom he had lost. He thought of music in each of its many facets and all of its splendour.

And this time, as he caressed the keys: music came forth.

* * *

_The darkness was closing in around her, her senses unable to defend against it. It was consuming her, overwhelming every feeling she possessed. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the horror that she knew was coming._

_Then she heard it . . . so gentle it could have easily been missed. A soft, lilting melody that reached out to her through the torment. As it grew and developed, her tears were swept away unshed. . ._

She opened her eyes to the darkness, but was not afraid this time. She heard the music. It spoke of loneliness, of emptiness. And it filled her heart. Her breathing steadied as that almost forgotten sensation swept over her: she gave herself up to the music, drowning in it, never wanting to surface again.

As it eventually faded away into its echo once more, her consciousness faded with it; but her slumber was not to be troubled again this night. Her dreams were filled with music, with the words of a father, spoken in promise to the child who alone could claim his love in this world.

* * *

His hands rested on the keys. They never left until the music had died away – although apparently, this took longer than he had originally thought. He closed the lid and covered the piano with as much care as he had shown before. He moved even more silently – if that was possible – as he closed the curtains and left the room once more. He did not want any noise to disturb the beauty of what had been created.

He found himself stood on the landing again. A thought ran through his mind that became more prominent the longer he remained unmoving. Giry would have his head if she knew what was going through it at present. But he had to know.

He made his way up the stairs instead of down, moved down the hall and placing his hand on the door, prepared himself to do that which he had told himself he never would. He stepped into the room, and moving over to the far wall, knelt down.

Christine lay before him, turned onto her left side.

The look of peace on her face, coupled with the small smile it produced transformed her. Yes, she had been lovely when he saw her first, but now that her troubles were gone from her features . . .

She rolled over onto her back. He jumped back, afraid that she had awoken. Her eyes remained closed. He saw her fully now.

God truly was an artist to create such beauty.

The look on her face was enough. He knew he had done the right thing. More importantly, he knew she had _heard._

Her mouth opened slightly, as though she would speak. He was disappointed when no sound came out. Even in her sleep though, she could astonish him.

As he made his way down to the cellars and his own bed, his thoughts were again filled with her in wonder. Twice now, she had mouthed a word to him. Twice now she had addressed him without knowing. Twice now, she had reached out to him.

Twice now, she had called him 'Angel.'

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**Another Author's Note: Sorry, me again. Special mention in the next chapter for anyone who can correctly guess what he played. Thanks. Nedjmet.**


	15. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: Thanks to Soignante, Busanda, Lady Winifred, Rose of Night (love your screen name), mildetryth, CarolROI, ****Spectralprincess, Shayril, BadBugz, WindPhoenix and D. Jenks for their reviews. Congratulations to Lady Winifred, CarolROI and Busanda for correctly guessing the music that was played in the last chapter. I would love to put the rest of you out of your misery, but I'm planning to use it as a plot device, so I'm afraid you'll either have to guess again (and I _will_ tell you if you get it right) or just wait and see. The only thing I will say is that in spite of some of the language I chose to use, the answer is not in fact Music of the Night, as I don't believe that would have been appropriate at this stage. Anyway, here's another chapter to keep you going. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 14

The warmth of the sun drew her back from her slumbers, and brought a smile with it as it caressed her face. She opened her eyes and sighed contentedly as the light of a new day greeted her.

Christine shot bolt upright in bed.

And silently giggled in astonishment.

When was the last time she had known such . . . peace?

The last time she had known music.

She jumped out of bed, ran out of her room and down the stairs. She stopped on the first floor. Moving as silently as she could to the door she couldn't open, she raised her hand and, out of habit, placed it just above its surface.

She heard it.

The music she thought she had dreamt. The music that had brought her away from the terrors of the dark and reminded her of some of the beauty that was held in the night. The music that had answered the call of her soul; that had spoken of the grief she felt, the longing for what had been lost – the hope that remained.

It hadn't been a dream. She could hear the echo of it, just as surely as she used to hear the echo of . . . Her hand traced a path along the wall – again, never quite touching – as she made her way down the stairs and into the hall. The music filled her mind and she allowed it to flow through each of her senses, losing herself to it once more. She spun around giddily in silent ecstasy.

The sight of the cellar door brought her to a halt.

Could it have been the ghost? Certainly, he claimed this house as his own: this house filled with music; this house where some of her sorrows had been clearly expressed. He must value music to be so . . . ruthless in his dealings with the Ravelle, an attitude which could imply a musical talent behind it.

Could it have been the ghost? Could this mysterious figurehead of the Institute have seen her, heard the cry of her heart and answered it with an insight and skill that could only be described as . . .

_Angel _

Her thoughts came back to her from when she had drifted off into the only medically unaided rest she had had since her troubles had first begun. Her father's promise. Had it finally been fulfilled after all her tears and yearnings and prayers? But why now, when she was unable to do anything? Was it some fresh torment? Or a test?

Angel or Ghost? Father or Phantom?

Whose was the music that filled her senses? Whose was the voice that spoke to her _soul_?

Confusion swept over her as hope and reason fought for dominance. But one thought prevailed: perhaps she had neglected music for too long. Now that she had finally remembered, she could not let it forget her.

* * *

He sat before the organ bowed over the keys. It was a pose he had adopted many a time. Indeed, he could be found there so often – if he could be found, that is – that one would almost think he was a statue that had been carved that way. It wouldn't be too far amiss. No stance could be more natural to him, no activity more fulfilling to him, than if it had indeed been set in stone or engraved upon his heart. 

Yet the keys were silent. Not for a want of inspiration or an inability to transfer the contents of his mind onto the ivory fingers that waited patiently for his own. They were silent because the sheets of paper resting before him on the stand did not contain notes of the musical kind. One was a piece of paper with a fairly well-worn crease across its middle – a sheet that could have almost been made of rose petals, what with the scent it gave off coupled with its appearance.

The other was a parchment of the highest quality; a parchment that bore various pencil lines and strokes, shapes and shadows. A parchment that carried the beginnings of a portrait. His gaze was fixed upon the face that was depicted there as though in sleep. No matter how sorely he may have been tempted, the drawing would remain that: a drawing, without colour; the life contained therein depicted only with light and shadow.

For he realised now that that was her world, a world of some light and many shadows.

But the colour was returning. He had seen it in her eyes each time she had called him 'angel'.

_Angel_

He had been called many things in his lifetime, few of which were favourable. But he had never once been referred to in such a . . . heavenly light. He was a creature of shadows, filled with darkness. He belonged to the night and yet here was this girl, this child reaching out to him without any real knowledge, and calling him 'angel'.

He looked at the note again wondering, not for the first time, what thoughts truly lay behind it. He looked at the portrait he had done of her at peace. He had caused that. His music had been filled with the pain of solitude, with a longing for music, with the hope that it might be heard. And it had brought the faintest hint of a smile to her lips.

Would it be forgotten with the cruel light of day? Passed over as merely a sweet dream? Surely not. She had **heard**.

_Angel _

Would that her voice had moved with her mouth. _Two months_. Two months, and then he would find out whether or not she could answer his dreams as he had answered hers. Two months, and he would finally learn if she could again be a child of music.

_His _music.


	16. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: I did promise a double update once we hit 45, so here you go. 11 reviews for chapter 13. Thank you so much! Anyway, enjoy. Nedjmet.

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 15

True to Meg's word, Christine's class had indeed been given a more thorough tour of the two theatres, particularly the larger one, as part of her first class in Basic Theatre Management. The Ravelle Institute believed that even performers should have an appreciation for the way a theatre was run in every aspect, and so each student was required to take the class, no matter where their 'talents' lay.

They had been guided by the Master of the Flies, Joseph Buquet, who was one of the longest serving members of staff at the Institute. He had been employed from when the Institute was opened, having come highly recommended by Professor Gardiner. Whilst it was clear that he knew his trade and was very competent in it, it soon became apparent that he was given over to, and very fond of, gossip – and his manner was not always strictly professional, as he had told the class to call him Joe with a very suggestive look towards some of the girls, prompting a few giggles.

The tour given at the time of the auditions had shown the extravagant auditorium and stage – the side of the theatre that the audience saw. The tour given by 'Joe' was no less impressive, though perhaps not so elegant. Having been raised on stories of theatres and opera houses – amongst other things, Christine was not entirely unprepared for the extent of things 'behind the scenes,' from all the storage that was needed to the props, sets and costumes themselves, from rehearsal and dressing rooms to the intricate rigging above stage from which hung some of the lights, sound equipment, and even on occasion certain aspects of scenery.

The whole thing would have taken her breath away, however, had that not already been done some months ago, as the Ravelle did things on a much grander scale than she had ever been witness too. It did, nevertheless, leave her fascinated, and though somewhat daunted, she felt a little more at home, knowing she was where her parents had wanted her to be, where she felt like she belonged – or at least she would if her voice returned.

The tour concluded ten minutes before the end of class, which was quite surprising, given all that there was to see and learn about. As they were climbing stairs and the décor became more ornate, it soon became apparent where they were headed, and given Joseph's flair for gossip – which had thus far sounded somewhat sensationalised – it was not all that surprising to Christine when the group found themselves at the door to one of the boxes on the grand tier.

"Now, you've seen the theatre in all its glory, like with any other tour. But now, allow me to introduce you to the side of the Ravelle that few will tell you about, but all should know."

He drew out the last phrase, pausing at the end of it so that the group was hanging on his every word. Truth be told, whilst this did not have quite the same effect on her, as she had been forewarned to some degree; Christine was not unaffected by his words. After all, if this was going where she thought it was, then there was every chance that she was about to learn something more of the mysterious figure whose house she was living in.

"Behind this door lies the most infamous secret of Ravelle, the curse that everyone here is in fear of. Behind this door is Box 5." He spoke in laboured, heavy whispers, which no doubt would have frightened a party of six year olds, but those who weren't looking at him as though he'd lost his mind were instead giggling or merely curious – probably grateful for the diversion.

"And what's so special about a box?" Carlotta piped up and asked, clearly humouring Mr. Buquet.

"This is the Ghost's box." This really did elicit giggles, although Christine's face retained its measure of curiosity.

"So there's a ghost in this place? What, is it the first conductor? Or one of the tenors who was killed on some opening night?" Asked Ubaldo Piangi, an international student from Italy, and one of the many who had taken to idolising Carlotta – although in his case, she had shown signs of actually returning the adoration.

"Laugh now, but he likes to 'welcome' the new students, and we'll see who's laughing then. This place has been haunted by the ghost since it was built. He knows everything that goes on here, and when he's seen, he disappears into thin air before anyone can get a good look."

"Right. And what's so special about this box, then?" Returned Carlotta.

"This is his box. He has it for every performance, but it's always empty. A few years ago, the managers tried to sell it. Well, the Ghost was none too happy about that. Half the sets ended up being damaged beyond repair and the leads couldn't go on. Apparently they'd suddenly been taken ill. Next morning, the managers find one of his notes on their desk, telling them – all nice and polite, mind – that it'd be a good idea not to try selling 'his' box again. It hasn't been sold since."

"How do you know it's not just some prankster? Why not let the police deal with whoever it is?"

"They've tried, lass. Believe me, they've tried. But there's never anything to be found. No clues, no nothing. Just the notes and the damage."

"Come on, Mr. Buquet, do you really expect us to-"

"Joseph Buquet! What are these students doing up here?" Madame Giry's strict tones needed no raised volume to be heard. The class cleared a path for her as she approached the Master of the Flies.

"Madame. I was just giving them the usual tour."

"On the contrary, Monsieur, you were giving _your_ usual tour. I do not believe the Ravelle has yet to encourage detours to the boxes under any circumstances."

"No, Madame. But-"

"That is enough!" Turning to the class, "If you did not know beforehand, allow me to inform you now: students are not permitted in this theatre outside of class except for rehearsals or performance. Your class finished five minutes ago, so I would ask you to make your way outside. As for you, Joseph," she said, only turning her head this time as the students began to file away, "I would advise against these detours. Rumour spreads well enough without your contributions."

With a last meaningful glance that was not lost on a number of the students, she moved over to Christine, who had been looking alternately between the two teachers and the door to Box 5.

"Christine?" She looked at her second mother. "Come, child. We don't want to be late."

They walked out of the theatre and over to the gates of the Institute where a taxi was waiting for them. Madame Giry's limp meant that even though she was licensed, driving was usually awkward if not painful for her, and she had learnt that 'speaking' with Christine in a car was impossible unless she was a passenger.

To say the ride took place in silence would be superfluous, but more to the point, Christine's pad of paper was not resting on her lap, which usually indicated that she did not wish for conversation. She turned to her guardian and looked at her, her eyes filled with questions.

"Meg told you much." She nodded. "And Buquet's 'tour' has no doubt intrigued you." She nodded again. "And now you have questions." Madame Giry asked on a sigh.

Christine looked at her. She seemed to have aged a few years with that sentence. The burdens she bore for her sake were great indeed, and Christine doubted that she had fully recovered from her grief either. If she did indeed 'work' for this 'ghost' then it was no wonder her heart was heavy with this conversation.

She got out her pad of paper, her pen poised above it, as though she was uncertain how to phrase her words.

Antoinette looked out of the window, readying herself for whatever answers or evasions she might need to give. She had never lied about the subject – nor would she start with Christine who had unwittingly become such a part of it – but neither had she ever broken the faith that had been placed in her by more than just 'O. G.'

_Do I need to know any more than I've been told? _

Suffice to say, she had not been prepared for that. She looked into Christine's eyes, for once: uncertain. She did not have chance to answer as Christine wrote again, having read her second mother's face.

_I trust you_.

She put the lid back on the pen – a sign that the subject was closed as far as she was concerned.

"My dear, let me say this: if ever there was something wrong, you know I would tell you."

_I know._

_And you have told me nothing._

Which was written with the hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow. Christine pointed at her previous sentence again, '_I trust you_'. Antoinette smiled a little and brushed her hand over Christine's hair, the subject closed.

Almost.

_Is he a musician?_

"Yes."

_Does he write music?_

"Why do you ask?"

_I do not know the music in his house._

"You do not know all the music in the world, my dear. You cannot expect to be unsurprised by it."

She put her pad away. She had known Madame Giry long enough to tell when she was being evasive; and it was usually a pretty safe bet that whatever she was avoiding would not be said. Antoinette was thinking along similar lines. She knew there was something Christine was not telling her, and she had a pretty good idea what that something was. She looked at her second daughter and saw a light in her face that had not been there for a long time.

She would have to have a chat with the Ghost when they returned.

If only to say 'thank you'.

* * *

The taxi pulled up outside of the large white building. Madame paid the driver, with instructions that he was to return in an hour. She went around to Christine's side and opened her door. Christine slowly stepped out and looked up at the building with wide eyes. At least there were no tears. Hopefully that was a step in the right direction, and not a sign that she had gotten good at masking her emotions. 

Since her father had died, once she had been released, Christine had had a terrible fear of hospitals and it usually took some time to convince her to set foot inside the place, no matter how well she knew that she needed to go in.

Today, however, she stood looking up at it for a few moments, and then moved forward. She turned and offered her left arm to Madame Giry to use as a support. Who was supporting who was always a matter of debate, but this time, the surprise probably meant that it was Antoinette who was in need.

They made their way through the hospital towards the ENT department where the receptionist greeted them with a familiarity that could only come from regular visits.

"Good afternoon, Madame. Hello Christine. Bit early today aren't we?" Christine just gave her a half-hearted smile as she and Madame filled out the necessary forms and the receptionist phoned their arrival through.

"You're in luck; Dr Valerius is running early today as well, although I daresay he probably would have welcomed a break." She said with a conspiratorial wink. "You can go on through."

Christine moved in the direction of the consultation room. Antoinette put a hand on her arm, the familiar question in her eyes. Christine shook her head. They had been coming to these appointments every month since the fire, with regular checkups by Dr Philips, their family GP. The last few visits though, Christine had gone through the consultation alone, with Madame only being present for the updated reports. She attributed it to part of Christine's healing process, but she couldn't help but wonder if maybe the pressure with the Ravelle had made her more self-conscious. Either way, she did not stop worrying until she had been given the progress report.

Christine carried on as her mother resumed her seat. She went down the corridor and soon came to the familiar brown door. She knocked and a slightly accented voice – a voice which used to bring tears to her eyes because of the memories it evoked – called out to her to come in.

"Hello, Christine. You're early today."

She allowed a small smile to cross her features.

"Hello, Uncle Gustave."

* * *

**Author's Note: Whilst I know that that answers a question that has been in a lot of reviews and probably on quite a few minds . . . PLEASE don't hate me for that cliffy, but I couldn't resist. It wasn't an impulse, this has been my intention from the start and I promise that there will be explanations in the next chapter. Just an incentive to keep reading. Thanks. Nedjmet.**


	17. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: First of all, thanks to Soignante, Lady Winifred, Busanda (double thanks), Rose of Night, Shayril (triple thanks), mildetryth, Erik'sLittleLotte, Spectralprincess and WindPhoenix for their latest reviews. Extra thanks are for multiple reviews, if anyone's confused.**

**Secondly: I will be double posting today because we've reached 60 reviews. THANK YOU! But please be patient, as I haven't actually written chapter 17 yet. It WILL be posted today though. Sorry to do this, but as I have obviously run out of pre-prepared chapters, and since you guys have reviewed so much (seriously, I am overwhelmed by all the amazing feedback I've been getting), I am now raising the review quota and will be double posting for every 20 reviews I get.**

**But enough ramblings from your panicked authoress! To make up for these slight annoyances, here's the next chapter which should satisfy at least some of the curiosity that I seem to have awakened, and answer a lot of questions that have been asked. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 16

She put her hand to her throat out of habit, although the soreness that usually accompanied her speech was barely there after those few words.

"So how's my goddaughter today then?"

"Alright."

Spending over three months effectively mute had almost completely gotten rid of the chatty little girl that used to be Christine. Getting her to open up with words was no easy task, but it did eventually happen, so he carried on.

"I noticed you're early. No hanging around outside this time?"

"Not for long. You'd have been proud. I think Mother was surprised."

"I'll bet." She moved over and sat on the examination table.

"You seem happier today."

"Mmhm. I think I might be."

"You only think? Well, I suppose that's a turn-up from a huge resounding 'no'."

"Gus-Gus!" She reproached him with the name she had given him as a toddler.

"Ooh, low blow." It was a name which he infamously despised (but secretly loved, of course). "Seriously though, tell me."

"You remember the stories Papa told . . . from back home?" She began, referring to Sweden; the place where Charles Daaë could – and frequently did – claim half of his heritage. Gustave nodded. "Do you remember the promise he made?" She continued quietly.

"You think it's been kept?" For all that Dr Valerius was a man of science, he was also a man of deep faith – and some superstitions that had been instilled as a child had remained steadfast in spite of his education.

"I don't know. Mother made arrangements for me to stay in a house that apparently belongs to the Institute's resident Ghost who was, or is, a musician. The house is full of music. I started having the . . . dream last night, but I was woken up by a melody that I'd never heard before. It spoke to my _soul_ and answered everything that's there. I fell asleep pretty quickly, but I swear that music was being played within the house. Part of me thinks it might be the Ghost, but I can't help but wonder if Papa's promise is being kept. How else could the music have known-"

She broke off in a gasp as a coughing fit threatened and her breathing became erratic, having spoken a little too long and with too much emotion for her damaged vocal chords to handle. Dr Valerius quickly got some water and started to massage the front of her neck. Her breathing eventually evened out and she drank the water carefully, welcoming the relief on her screaming throat.

"Better?" She nodded at length.

"OK, well then I think it's time you let me take a look." He examined her throat thoroughly, taking care not to be too rough where the damage remained.

"Good. Have you been doing your exercises?" She nodded.

"All your exercises?" She looked at him, partly with guilt, partly with sorrow and partly with something that could either be frustration or anger.

"Christine, your voice has made tremendous progress. I know you don't want to push things and risk damaging your vocal chords, but unless you start exercising your singing voice as well, there's every chance it'll suffer from not being used. Now I know how you feel about this," he said, putting up his hand to stop her interjection, "but I'm going to have to pull rank soon unless I see some improvement on that front. Doctor's orders and all that. Understand?"

"Alright." She said resignedly.

"Good. Now let's take a look, shall we?"

Christine forced back the tears that inevitably came with this phrase, knowing what followed. Had it been any other doctor, she probably would have refused this stage of the check-up point blank by now, as no other doctor would have been so consistently patient. But Gustave, being one of her father's closest friends and one of her godfathers, had never pushed her too far and always knew just when to stop. For that, she would be forever in his debt. He always phrased the requests the same way. He asked to see her throat, but he asked them both to see the rest. It had helped, but that didn't make it any less of a torture.

She removed her baggy jumper to reveal the black form-fitting shirt underneath. She wore the baggy clothes; the glasses she didn't really need and kept her hair tied back to try and be invisible – or at least unnoticeable. She wore form-fitting clothes underneath to keep everything completely hidden – just in case.

Slowly, bracing herself with each button, she removed her shirt. Dr Valerius led her over to the two mirrors that he always had arranged for her appointments. And as always, she had her eyes closed. He simply stood there and waited. History had taught that it was a BAD idea to examine her until she had seen. It only heightened her anguish.

She took a few breaths to try and calm herself, searching for the right memories. Too far back and her mind would only go further still to where the memories were at their most excruciating. Too recent, and she would only be either horrified, or upset at the lack of progress. And then she would remember the rest anyway. She found what she was looking for: two appointments ago. She remembered what she saw then.

She opened her eyes.

She looked at the reflection of her eyes first and foremost. Then the rest of her face. It was a trick she had learnt some time ago, when she had really started resembling her mother – except for their hair and their eyes and the age difference, they would have been identical, had she lived. She saw the shadows in and beneath her eyes. The worry etched across the rest of her features. She relaxed her face, to make it easier.

Her eyes travelled down her reflection's torso. She saw the pale skin – modesty preserved by her underwear – and thought it reminded her somewhat of porcelain. She looked to her reflection's right and saw the faintest traces of white. A white that was paler than her skin.

She closed her eyes and took another breath. This time, when she opened them, she looked at the reflection of the other mirror, the one stood directly behind her that allowed her to see her back, simply by staring ahead.

She traced the now familiar white scar lines through both reflections. She followed them as they came around from the base of her rib cage, up her shoulder where they broadened out into a more angry red, down the length of her arm where they narrowed off again and stopped just above her wrist. Her eyes then followed the path back up her arm, across her shoulder, to where they disappeared under a now obvious foundation line.

Gustave, having observed the path her eyes had taken, discreetly handed her a wet wipe. She looked into the reflection of her eyes again; and never breaking the contact – never looking at anything else – she wiped away her make-up. First the left side, leaving the smooth porcelain skin that had been so admired until only a few months ago.

Then the right side.

When she had finished her neck, she handed it back unseeingly to Dr Valerius. And she looked.

She saw the scars that had crept and crawled across her right side, completely marring it from her forehead, right down to her chin, and down her neck until they met the others. She looked at the left side. It should have been a mirror image of the right.

Gustave followed her eyes and saw where her thoughts were going. The mirrors did show a true reflection – but of her person, not her looks. The left side showed the beauty that she truly was in both body and soul, whilst the right was an all too vivid manifestation of the pain that had scarred her just as extensively.

Her eyes then focused on him as he watched her. Following her silent ascent – and just as gently as he examined her throat – he proceeded to check the scarring, knowing that whilst it still hurt every time she looked, it also remained painful physically in some areas.

After a few minutes, he let her dress again whilst he washed his hands. He was grateful for the few moments that allowed them to hide from one another. He knew she had shed many tears during these times, whilst he was not immune himself. He treasured his goddaughter. Having never had children of his own, and given his close friendship with Charles, he had always insisted that she call him 'Uncle'. It had never been anything less than natural to her anyway. And now his little treasure was in pain which he knew only one could heal her from. He sent up a prayer that was no doubt reminiscent of her own, asking that Charles' promise finally be kept.

He turned to face her again and saw her re-applying her make-up.

"They're healing nicely. You should be all set by the time the operation comes around."

She hadn't been able to think about the insurance money from the fire without feeling consumed by rage which was quickly followed by the all too familiar despair. It was what she had been given instead of her father, after all. Eventually, after much persuasion from Dr Valerius and plenty of the right words from Madame Giry, it had been agreed that some of the money would be used to fund an operation to surgically cover the scars that would otherwise be visible. It had been arranged to happen in the school holidays, so that no one would notice.

"As for your voice: the damage from the smoke was gone long ago; the heat and the coughing fits haven't left much behind now. I think your main concern is a lack of use."

"OK."

"Christine, I know you don't want to sing just yet, but you above all people should know better than to let yourself get out of practice on any instrument. I really think you should start talking again. At least to Antoinette."

"If I talk to Mother, I won't be able to stop myself from talking to Meg, and I don't know if she'll remember not to expect an answer from me at school. If I start talking, then I'll have to start singing. And I'm just not ready for that."

"Alright, Christine. But you can't hide yourself away forever, especially not at the Ravelle."

"I know. But right now, I need to."

"OK. Any last words before we go report in?" She finished putting her make-up away, then wrapped her arms around her Gus-Gus and said:

"Thank you." He blinked back tears as he carefully wrapped his arms around her.

"Now see, if all my patients were this grateful, I might just be able to bear coming in to work every day. Oh well, guess you'll just have to be my little ray of sunshine."

She smiled up at him. He knew that look. Christine had put her mask back on and the mute had returned. He resisted the urge to sigh as he opened the door and they made their way through the waiting area to his office, collecting Antoinette – with a one-armed hug from Christine – along the way.

Once they were seated, Gustave began straight away, wanting to put Antoinette out of her misery.

"Christine's doing just fine. Her throat is healing nicely. The damage to her vocal chords has reduced tremendously and the other scarring should be healed enough for the operation, although it will probably still be uncomfortable if jarred."

"Do you have any idea when her voice will return?"

"Medically speaking, I'd say a month, six weeks – as I've said before. But a lot does depend on Christine. Whilst her vocal chords can heal, she needs to be careful in how she uses them if she wants to make a full recovery."

Whilst Antoinette interpreted this one way, Christine received the full meaning loud and clear, and shot her godfather a look to convey that.

"Thank you, Gustave."

"Not at all, Madame. Do you have any more questions?"

"Unless there are any further instructions, I believe we have covered everything before now."

"Very well then. How's Meg?"

They chatted for a further five minutes, as he had been running early and conversing with old friends counted as a break in his book. Christine knew what he was doing: the stories and anecdotes that the two exchanged were something that she would have loved to add to, but she couldn't! She wasn't ready for her voice yet. She was just glad he hadn't said that he 'understood'. They both knew he didn't fully, but at least he knew and respected her wishes in this – in spite of his subtle prodding.

Eventually they left, Antoinette with a kiss on the back of her hand, and Christine with another hug, as was their custom.

* * *

Their ride home was again made in silence. Christine's hands never strayed to her bag for her paper. The two women both had much to think about. 

Antoinette thought on Gustave's words. He had been a friend for so long, he was practically considered as family. _A lot does depend on Christine_. She had seemed so at peace today, and even though she was troubled as always when they visited the hospital, the peace remained to some extent, lessening her anxiety. Something had happened in that house and she determined to find out from the owner exactly what he had done – if only to encourage him in helping Christine.

Christine's thoughts were engaged on a similar topic. Uncle Valerius was the one person she could talk to who understood her father's promise and didn't ridicule it in any way. He was waiting for it to come true as well. He had accepted that it was the only way she could heal: it was the only way she could get her music back. She wondered again if it had been the Ghost. But why would he do that for her instead of returning a note with one of his own? Even if he genuinely was a ghost, he couldn't know her so well after a few weeks of silence.

But an angel could.

Christine sent up her prayer once more. It was the one she had been sending since the moment she had finally accepted that her father really was gone.

_Father, you taught me of the Angel of Music. You promised you would send him when you were in Heaven. I wanted you to stay with me so badly, but you couldn't. Please, Papa, keep your promise to me now. Send me the Angel of Music. No one else can return my music to me. Please Papa, keep your promise. Let me be whole again, or I will surely follow you soon. You know I cannot live without Music. Please Papa. Please. _

A tear slid down her left cheek. She brushed away the one from her right eye before it could fall. Her mask was in place now. And there was none who would take it from her.


	18. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: First of all, a thousand apologies this took me so long. I had to move back home from uni and get settled in a bit before I could get around to writing. But thanks for bearing with me.**

**Secondly, thanks again to Soignante, Busanda, mildetryth, CarolROI, BadBugz and Spectralprincess for their reviews. You guys are brilliant! Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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**Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 17

The music filled the caverns, echoing off every wall – but not in the cacophony that usually comes from echoes. No, these notes were true music, and even the echo played a part: filling every crack and crevice; suffusing every surface with sound until they returned to their source: the masked figure bent over the keyboard, playing away furiously, unable to keep the notes trapped within his mind. They poured forth with every ounce of skill he possessed resulting in a terrible beauty that could easily have been called divine, were it not so filled with anguish and sorrow, rage and despair.

The music had not compelled him to play so in what felt like the longest time. Music never left him – he had devoted himself too completely to it for that – but it was rare for it to fill him this completely, to the point of overflowing and beyond. He relished every moment of it. These were times when his soul was at peace: when there was nothing and no one in existence, other than himself and the music. If only they were not so rare.

He played on; unable to do otherwise, unmindful of anything else.

Which is why Madame Giry had to strike the ground more forcefully than usual with her cane in order to get his attention.

The music stopped. Like a cat, he jumped up and spun around glaring at her with a heated venom that would have sent anyone else running away in fear of their life. She, however, merely kept her distance.

"I hope, Madame, you have good reason for this intrusion!" Though spoken in a low volume, the deep resonance leant his voice a ferocity that was as sensual as it was terrible.

"Christine."

The name subdued him momentarily. It did belong to the one who had brought the music back to him with such a force, after all. He had been staring at her note and her portrait earlier that day, not realising that his fingers had wandered to the keys until he was several measures in – by which time he could not help but give himself up to it once more. But he would not allow her second mother to see that she could have such an effect on him after so little time.

"Is there any part of my world she will not disrupt? What is it this time?" His voice raised in annoyance.

"You played for her." He continued glaring at her, his breathing heavy both from the frustration he now felt, and the exertions the music had demanded of him.

"Yes."

"You did not simply play in the house. You played _for_ her?"

"Yes, Madame, although you know how I abhor repeating myself."

"Why?"

"Was it not you who said that my playing in that house would not be a problem? That it would be appreciated? Contented as I have become to my solitude, Madame, my music demands more attention than I am capable of bestowing."

She approached him, trying to break through the walls of anger he had built once again as a defence.

"My dear, you have not played for anyone since-"

"Do not speak her name!" He snapped; closing the distance between them, using every power of intimidation he could.

"You mean to mourn her loss forever?"

"Some wounds do not heal with time, Madame."

"You sound like Christine."

He laughed harshly at this.

"I may be a ghost, Madame, but I am not a **mute**."

The crack that bounced off the walls as she struck him was deafening in the silence that followed. The bitterness and severity with which he had spoken that last word had struck the mother in her with an equal force that prompted her instincts.

At first he was too stunned to do anything. It only lasted a moment. He snatched up her hand before it had fallen, wrapped his own around her neck and slammed her back against the wall.

"You dare strike me!" he hissed.

"You dare insult my child!" Even though her breath was being choked out of her, she still managed to reply forcefully.

He glared at her, which she returned.

He released her. They still didn't break eye contact.

"I meant no insult to her." He respected her too much to do her any harm. She knew him well enough to accept the apology, for it was more than he usually managed.

"She is not a mute." The rebuke for his insult was received loud and clear.

He moved away and sank onto the stool he had vacated only moments before. He looked drained, finally allowing his spent energies from the music to show.

"You played for her." She went back to the original topic, their confrontation being forgotten. She had interrupted him when he had been consumed by his darker emotions after all, and he had accepted her rebuke in return.

"She heard." He spoke with an air of wonder, even now.

"Do you mean to help her?"

"No one has listened since her. I'd almost forgotten."

"So had she."

"I have known nothing in my life so faithful as music. If she is a child of music, then her faith should be restored. Gardiner has not praised a student like that before. I have to hear her. You did not object to her becoming my protégé when we first discussed her."

"Truth be told, I know of no one who could help her so well as you." She put her hand on his shoulder to show her support and approval.

"What else of my life will she disrupt?" He wondered, speaking more to himself than his companion.

"Do you mean to help her?"

He thought of the smile she had bestowed in her sleep. He thought of the dignity with which she bore her situation. He thought of all that he had been told. And one word whispered in his mind.

_Angel_

With that one word she had reached out to him twice now. All the times he had reached out to the world with his cries, with his music. And now this girl reached out to him.

He turned to the ballet mistress and saw a mother, to whom he simply answered:

"Yes."


	19. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: Again, sorry this took so long, but I've fallen a little behind. I'll try and catch up so I can keep my updates nice and regular.**

**Once again, thanks to Spectralprincess, Busanda, Squealing Lit. Fan (intriguing screen name), Soignante, Rose of Night, WindPhoenix, Erik'sLittleLotte and Lady Winifred (double thanks) for their latest reviews.**

**Here's the next chapter. If you've never heard the music I mention, shame on you! I insist that you go and rectify the situation. It's very easy to listen to and very wonderful - and the third movement is too much fun! Anyway, thanks again and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 18

She woke to the gentle sound of strings playing softly, but with an energy that bid her wake fully instead of sinking back into lethargy. The easy beauty of Beethoven's pastoral symphony surrounded her. She'd forgotten how wonderful a piece it was to wake up to. As those memories returned, so did others. She remembered the many times she and her father had sat and listened to this symphony to relax or unwind after a hard day at school or one of difficult rehearsals, respectively. How they'd debated the use of period instruments, giving arguments for and against, quoting different pieces to compare; how this recording was always used in favour thereof. She remembered him playing sections of it. Even though it was meant for a full orchestra, he still made it sound wonderful. He'd say it was the mark of a true piece of music. She'd then reply that it was the mark of a true musician. They never could settle that argument. They stopped trying to after a while.

She listened to it, trying to stop the tears that were forming. And failing miserably. They trailed down her face, ruining the make-up that she'd long ago fallen into the habit of wearing, even in sleep – too many mid-nightly check-ups for her to do without comfortably. She remembered that she was not at home. She remembered that her father was not at this moment waking up to the very same piece, listening to the very same notes.

She had set the alarm to go off earlier than usual; knowing that the beautiful swell of the sixth would undoubtedly spark such a reaction – unlike the hideously annoying beeping that she had gotten used to lately. For the ten minutes that made up the first movement, she lay there, lost in her memories and her tears. She had determined not to leave music forgotten anymore, and this was the price she must pay for letting it be forgotten at all.

By the time the second movement had started, weaving its more restful way from the speakers out into the room, she had become lost in the sounds instead. As she removed and reapplied her make-up, she focussed on the pictures the music created; the rolling countryside, the lazy activity of a summer's day. She thought on the beauty and ignored the scars.

She didn't even realise she'd done as much until the third movement came, at which she couldn't help but join in with the infectious happiness it contained. As she allowed the music to fill the house, her whole body gave itself over to it and she danced her way through her morning routine. It had always been the way: whenever she gave herself over to music that did not require a vocal accompaniment, Madame Giry's influence showed.

She did not listen to the fourth movement. Much as she enjoyed the whole symphony, her present mood was too fragile for a musical storm. As the winds, then brass, then strings swelled and blended their way into a beautiful harmony, her otherwise troubled spirits were calmed once more under the power the notes wielded. Antoinette had not been wrong: she was a true child of music, and she had ignored that parent for too long. Returning to its embrace, even if it was only for thirty five minutes, brought a glow to her heart that few others could manage.

It was fortunate indeed that she had allowed its return, for as she closed the door she steeled herself: it was vocal performance again today.

* * *

He had been scribbling away furiously; trying to write down all that he had played, trying to recreate that which Giry had interrupted. He was desperate not to let it slip away from him. The power and the passion within the music was something rarely touched upon or even glimpsed by mere mortals, and yet here he was, copying it away; note for glorious note.

Were his concentration not so intense once more, he would have smirked at the irony: the mortals rejected a demon, and through their folly were denied the divine. For he could call himself that with some authority now, since one of their own had dubbed him as such twice.

He threw his pen across the room as another sound invaded his sanctuary, his train of thought lost yet again! He would have cried out in frustration and readied himself to inflict his wrath on whichever fool had dared to invaded his lair this time, but was stopped. This was not the sound of any human intruder. Music had entered the caverns – softly, as though it had travelled a great distance – yet it did not come from the school. He checked his watch. No rehearsal had ever been set so early.

_Where was it coming from?_

Then it struck him. He snatched up his cloak, fastening his shirt and smoothing his hair somewhat. His appearance was a far cry from the usually elegant and impeccable attire of the Opera Ghost, but at least he was not so dishevelled. He chose his path and ran down it as swiftly and silently as the most stealthy of hunters.

_Christine_

Had she finally broken the silence?

As the tunnel drew nearer to the house, the sound became clearer. He recognised Beethoven's sixth. It was actually a favourable recording, even if the tempos were different to what he would have chosen. He stopped when he reached the door, hearing footsteps on the stairs above. Yet they were not walking with their usual steady tread.

Once they had passed him, he looked out. His mouth hung open – even if only briefly before he collected himself.

She was dancing! Moving perfectly with the music, her movements emulating the moods behind it completely. Though she did not move with the skill and finesse of a trained dancer, she moved with the beauty and understanding of a musical spirit that was both a rarity and a delight to see.

She turned.

She did not see him, for he remained concealed, but oh! did he see her. Her face shone with a serenity he had only witnessed during her slumbers. Now, with her features alive and awake. . . He had only known one other to become more beautiful each time he saw her; it was almost as though she were before him again.

She did not leave until the music had ended, even though she risked being a little late – a true devotee, it would seem.

He leaned back against the dark wall, stunned.

She had broken the silence. A sign of things to come perhaps? She had been so lovely with the music inside of her.

A smile broke across his features. A smile which turned into an astonished laugh. He had done that! He had brought about that transformation. By giving her some of his music, by answering her cries; he had restored life to her. Even if it was only a little, the change was extraordinary. No wonder Giry had risked coming to see him: she had sought to encourage it.

He had said he would help her.

Beethoven was good, but he still had a lot to learn. If Beethoven could draw this response out of her, imagine the possibilities he could work. If her voice was even half-deserving of the praise Gardiner had bestowed . . . His music, her voice . . . All this waiting was torture!

He would help her.

But he had to hear her.


	20. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: Thanks again to Soignante, Squealing Lit. Fan, mildetryth, Busanda and WindPhoenix for their latest reviews. Here's an extra chapter as a reward for 20 reviews. I actually was hoping to do a double posting today, and I think you'll see why. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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**Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 19

"_Well, if it isn't the mute coloratura."_

_Christine looked up to see Carlotta and her cronies stood around her. She had taken her usual seat away from the rest of the class to avoid what she believed to be inevitable. In spite of her efforts, it would seem that her faith, however, was not misplaced. They had arranged themselves so that she could not leave without forcing her way through. Probably not a good idea, given their number and the state of her right shoulder._

"_So tell us, Day, how exactly does a _mute_ get onto the Ravelle Vocal Performance course? It's just there's a friend of mine – poor thing, she has simply has no musical talent – who wouldn't mind graduating from here."_

_Her friends giggled inanely. Christine retained her composure and simply stared back. She'd heard worse. Her lack of response caused more giggles, but they eventually subsided as her steady gaze began to unnerve them._

"_And where do you get off calling yourself a coloratura at your age?" Carlotta went on, a little uncertain at first._

I didn't, _she wrote on her pad._

"_Great, an idiot as well as a mute. Should we pity her do you think girls, or do liars not deserve that? Come on, Day, you wrote that on the board. Everyone saw it. Just like everyone saw the rest. Where do you get off giving yourself that title when you haven't the voice to back it up? You don't belong here anymore than a cripple belongs in the ballet."_

_Christine's eyes flashed with rage at the scathing remarks. Most of the comments, she could sweep under the surface with some ease – yes, they hurt, but she had borne greater pain before now – but that last one!_

_She was saved the trouble of attempting to deliver a written diatribe effectively by Professor Gardiner's usual flamboyant entry._

As she recalled her second class, she inwardly seethed again. It had been the pattern every day for the last two weeks, grating on her patience to the extent that she was glad she was running late. She didn't bother hoping that they would find some other means of distraction: a mute singer at the Ravelle was not easily rivalled – except maybe by the Ghost.

_The group had been going over some vocal exercises, designed to improve breathing, and strengthen – if not expand – ranges. In the second half of the class, the group had been called on to demonstrate their progress. Professor Gardiner had virtually ignored Christine this time around the circle, much to her relief. When it finally came to Carlotta's turn, she had flaunted – there could be no other word to describe it – her range, going far higher than anyone else in the group. And screeching just like her mother._

_At least until a sandbag had dropped from the ceiling, missing her by mere inches. After a moment of stunned silence, her screeching was replaced by her screams. The jury was still out as to which of the two was easier on the ears._

_The class and Gardiner immediately flocked around her. Even Christine had moved forward in concern. No matter what Carlotta had said to her, no matter how true a reflection of her character her words were, she still could have been killed._

_Whilst her rival was indeed, truly shocked, she soon began lapping up the attention, extorting more sympathies from her captivated audience._

_At least until Ubaldo had noticed the white paper fluttering down from above. Everyone looked up to see where it had come from, but nothing was there save for the rigging. Nobody moved for a moment, until Professor Gardiner, with a face of stone went up onto the stage and retrieved it._

_He turned it over, allowing everyone to see the blood red skull that sealed the black-trimmed, white parchment. He read it a few moments before speaking._

"Professor Gardiner,

Please convey my own welcome and greetings to the new students. Since the rest of the staff have no doubt settled them in, and not wanting the wrong ideas to surface, I thought it time to add my own introduction.

Unfortunately, I was prevented from performing this in the usual manner by the atrocious noise that Ms. Guidacelli seems intent on emitting from her mouth. Please advise her that her range does not allow her to _sing_ in that octave, and that a cacophony of that nature is not welcome in my theatre. I remain,

Your respectful servant,

O.G."

"_How dare he! What kind of institute is this, allowing pranks like that?"_

"_Miss Guidacelli, I would advise you to be careful-"_

"_Careful! I could have been killed! You should be advising the stage hands to be careful!"_

"_Miss Guidacelli!" He silenced her, having never yet raised his voice to the class. "These notes are not to be taken lightly. The Ravelle has had enough bad history as a result of that. Now, I don't believe we can continue class with the theatre in this state, so we shall end early for the day. Dismissed."_

_In truth, he would have continued under any other circumstances, but he couldn't think of a more tactful way to prevent Carlotta from carrying on singing without further complaint. It was not without a wary glance that the class – including Gardiner – had left the theatre that day. Similar glances had accompanied them for the rest of the week as well._

_Christine had pondered this for the rest of the day. This was the Ghost whose house she was living in? It fit everything that she'd heard, but to nearly kill someone? True, she had been murdering the scales, but that still didn't justify it. She had been tempted to ask Mother Giry about O. G. again, but one look at her face and she knew that she had heard – and that everything was still alright as far as she was concerned. But it was still very unsettling._

Christine was brought back to reality as Carlotta finished off her turn at the vocal exercises for the day. She had not gone so high since the Ghost's introduction, but she was gradually climbing the scales once more.

"Good. Now class, I would like to present to you one of the songs that will be featuring as a performance piece this year, so we shall be perusing it for a few lessons."

This said, the score was handed around the circle. Christine took one and inhaled sharply as she saw the title. She scanned over the music quickly. It couldn't be! But her eyes did not deceive her.

Professor Gardiner had chosen one of her mother's favourite arrangements.

"How are we supposed to perform this? I don't even recognise the language." Carlotta's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"I had anticipated as much. Part of the song is written in Gaelic. Unless anyone has a background in or an understanding of the language, we shall be skipping those sections for today. Now, may I have a volunteer to give us an idea of the song?"

No one moved, too uncertain to try. Professor Gardiner had been furious in his treatment of both their voices and their vocal talents for the last few weeks. Meaning that there were few who did not now have doubts about their abilities. Not surprisingly, it was Carlotta who raised her hand.

"Ah, I see I haven't managed to scare everyone off. Join me on the stage, Miss Guidacelli."

The stage, though small, gave obvious prominence to any who climbed onto it. Whilst the professor took his seat at the piano, Carlotta immediately placed herself, rather smugly, centre stage. As the opening notes were delicately played, Christine closed her eyes in memory.

As Carlotta sang the first note, she opened them again in horror.

The song was a gentle melody, filled with grief and longing. Carlotta was 'singing' it with all the gusto of an operatic wannabe, with no regard whatsoever for the meaning of the words! As memories filled her mind, the true sound of the music fought for dominance over the noise that was coming from the girl on stage. She knew a break was coming, for Carlotta wouldn't risk ridicule by trying to pronounce such foreign words.

Christine made her choice.

She conjured up a yawn to open her vocal chords, and massaged them as she did so with a well-practiced hand, whilst Carlotta sang:

"I wish I were on yonder hill, 'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,"

By the time she had reached the third line, Christine was swallowing, readying herself.

"'Til every tear would turn a mill" Carlotta stopped, expecting the piano to continue, relishing in the attention that was focussed solely on her. Her mouth dropped open in horrified astonishment as an almost ethereal voice instead sang gently with a clear purity:

"Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán."

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**Author's Note (again): Apologies for being evil, but you were asking for this, and I was getting tired of dragging things out. But I'm afraid you'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happens next. Sorry. (Not really! - grins evilly) Nedjmet.**


	21. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: Thanks again to TalithaJ, Soignante, Busanda, Shayril, CarolROI, WindPhoenix, D. Jenks, osdfnsdaf, Rose of Night, Squealing Lit. Fan, BadBugz, steelelf, Lady Winifred, Erik'sLittleLotte and Mystery Guest (mega thank you for such a huge review). Guys, you are brilliant. 15 reviews for one chapter! I think I'm probably going to have to get ready to do another double update at this rate. Thankyou so much everyone for saying such wonderful things - I have no objections to being told of things that need correcting, mind you.**

**Anyway, allow me to put you out of your misery after yesterday's particularly evil cliffhanger. Here's the next chapter. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 20

All eyes turned to where the sound was coming from. All but Professor Gardiner were completely astonished to find that the beautiful, sweet voice was coming from Christine Day, the mute. Gardiner actually stopped playing as she sung the line, having forgotten exactly what her voice sounded like without the distortion of a recording. She continued on as he resumed playing, pronouncing the words perfectly with a rich Irish accent:

"Siúil, siúil, siúil a ruin, Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin, Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom, Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán."

Seeing that Carlotta had – miraculously – been rendered speechless by the interruption, Christine continued on with the music, moving forward towards the stage and the piano.

"I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, I'll sell my only spinning wheel, And buy my love a sword of steel, Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán.

"Siúil, siúil, siúil a ruin, Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin, Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom, Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán."

As the bridge came, she reached and stood in the well at the side of the grand piano, and with a voice filled with all the longing and pain she felt, she sang:

"I wish, I wish, I wish in vain, I wish I had my heart again, And vainly think I'd not complain, Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán."

She lost herself in the words as she poured out her grief, allowing it some kind of voice for the first time since it had begun.

"Siúil, siúil, siúil a ruin, Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin, Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom, Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán."

She snapped out of her music-induced trance and repeated the chorus with a renewed fervour, adding passion to the wish hidden within the words.

"Siúil, siúil, siúil a ruin, Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin, Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom, Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán."

The accompaniment died away with a few last notes, as Christine's head bowed. When it had ceased completely, she kept her eyes closed a moment longer, until she raised her hand to her throat, trying to massage away the cough that she could feel rising.

You could have heard a pin drop.

All eyes were on her as she stood there. Then one of the number raised their hands and brought them together. This pattern echoed around the class until all were applauding – except for Carlotta, of course. Only Professor Gardiner saw as she began to struggle with her breathing. He stood and brought her to sit on the piano bench.

The bell rang.

The applause continued.

Christine began to cough.

"Class dismissed." He eventually managed to call out.

They slowly filed out, their eyes for the most part still on the 'mute' with the voice of an angel. Professor Gardiner remained at her side, filled with concern. Her voice had returned! A little rough around the edges, but that was only to be expected – yet it had returned! He was suddenly filled with anticipation of the year to come: the performances she could give, the things he could accomplish by training her. But his excitement was temporarily overridden as he watched her, wondering what to do to ease her obvious discomfort.

A bottle of water appeared at his side.

He jumped to see Madame Giry holding it, her eyes fixed on her charge. Seeing his inaction, and Christine's lack of progress, she opened the bottle, brought it to her daughter's lips and slowly bid her drink a little. She continued this until her breathing had evened out, and Christine took the bottle – a sign that she had recovered sufficiently.

"What happened?" She asked, looking to her colleague for an answer. He didn't give one though, still too stunned by the impromptu performance.

Christine handed her second mother the sheet music that was resting on the piano. Antoinette looked at it, recognition and hope filling her eyes as her gaze snapped back to Christine's apologetic look.

"I couldn't help it." She whispered.

Antoinette's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears as she embraced her child. Her hopes were not in vain.

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The nerve of him! The fool had actually allowed Carlotta Guidacelli to climb onto that stage with the intention of 'performing' one of _her_ songs! Had his note meant nothing? Perhaps it was time for the Ghost to make his presence truly felt. This insolence was not to be borne. The Ravelle was HIS and his instructions WOULD be obeyed. 

He flinched as that _creature_ began to boom out what was meant to be a sweet lament. She sang as a peacock would – indeed, that bird's squawking would have been preferable at the moment. At least he would get some respite during the refrain. Perhaps there was yet hope for Gardiner's 'intelligence'. He used every scrap of patience – which wasn't much on this occasion – waiting for the last line of the stanza, to see how the instructor's piano playing had improved. He had recommended that he take lessons over the summer after all.

_Katie_

Had the harpy's massacre of music driven him to sweet madness? He had not forgotten the sound of her voice, but he had not heard it so clearly since . . .

The music had ceased.

No!

Continue. The voice had to continue. He could not have this luxury taken from him now, the torture would be unbearable. The playing continued, and with it . . .

He pushed aside all his usual cares about not being seen and leaned forward to take a look the class. They were all stood as still as statues except for . . .

_Christine_

She moved forward towards the stage where Carlotta stood – mute. She walked up the steps to stand beside the piano, her mouth moving perfectly in time with the music. And from her lips was pouring such an exquisite sound! Her voice was in sore need of training, her throat obviously not warmed up correctly – but the tone, the pitch were perfect; she sang with a clarity that he had not heard for years and the emotion that she poured into it! He _knew_ her pain as she gave it voice. He could not have felt it more deeply than if it had been his own.

She left them stunned into silence. Indeed, he had stopped breathing; not wanting to disturb the spell she had cast with something so unworthy as a heartbeat. They applauded. They never applauded during class. Except for her. It was never earned. Except by her.

She raised her hand to her throat. He found himself wanting to put his own there instead to remove any discomfort she felt. Of course there would have been some strain if she had kept silent all this time. Yet she risked that now? For this? He leaned further forward, the visible side of his face a picture of concern as she was seated on the bench.

She was having that much difficulty?

Madame Giry looking directly at him got his attention. He had not realised he had so exposed himself. He allowed himself to be swallowed by the shadows once more as she checked on her daughter.

But he did not leave.

He observed her movements as she eased the child's problem, noting every movement that she made, every care that she took, the way she held her as well. She obviously couldn't imagine what had happened, for she asked the professor for an answer.

He saw her look as she was shown the music. The hope she displayed was not a faint reflection of his own.

Christine answered.

He watched as mother embraced daughter. He had never seen such emotion on Antoinette's face. He closed his eyes as he savoured the sound of the child's voice – though it had only been a whisper.

It was perfect.

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**Author's note (again): Hope that answers a few questions and satisfies the suspense. If anyone Irish or with a working knowledge of Gaelic is reading this, my sincerest apologies if I got the spellings wrong. I did get the words from a website, because I love the song and my plot demanded that I use it. So apologies if I got them wrong, but I am not so fortunate as to speak or understand Gaelic (sighs in disappointment). Anyway, for anyone who doesn't know, from the web site, here is the translation which I referred to: **_Go, go, go, my love, Go quietly and go peacefully, Go to the door and fly with me, And safe for aye may my darling be. _**Thanks again. Nedjemt.**


	22. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: I know I promised a double update for every 20 reviews. Sorry this one took me so long. Crazy day, plus I'm having a hard time keeping up with you guys and I didn't know where to start this one or where to end it. . . anyway, here it is. But I'm afraid that (yet again!) I'm going to have to raise the review quota. I'll double update for every 25 reviews I get now, so hopefully I can catch up a bit. I'll try not to raise it anymore in future, because otherwise it'd be getting silly.**

**Thanks to Soignante, Busanda, Squealing Lit. Fan, steelelf, mildetryth, Rose of Night, WindPhoenix and osdfnsdaf. And a special thank you to Spectralprincess for submitting my 100th review! I know I've said this before, but I simply cannot believe all the support and encouragement I've received for this story. Thanks guys, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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**Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 21

"How long?"

Christine walked with Madame back to the Giry residence, her mother leaning on her arm as well as the cane. She didn't need the extra support, and in truth could probably have managed without the cane completely, but she found it to be a very handy prop both for instruction, discipline, and helping to instil the right amount of respect. Plus it was handy on those days when her limp was particularly bad. Keeping Christine so close also meant that she had little choice about answering.

"The last couple of appointments. It wasn't much at first. Just whispers."

"Why did Gustave not tell me?"

"I asked him not too. He didn't lie. My voice still isn't fully recovered."

"You stayed silent." There was a reproach, but also a question in Madame Giry's observation.

Christine didn't answer at first, trying to formulate her reasoning into something that her mother would understand; an answer that would make her deceit forgivable.

"If I started talking, then I would have to start singing. And I couldn't start singing without keeping a promise. I don't know if I have the strength to try."

Antoinette stopped and looked at the daughter of her heart, knowing full well which promise she was speaking of. She saw the pain that was in her eyes, the torment she had gone through both from the secret and from keeping it. She returned her gaze steadily, hoping to pass on some of the confidence she spoke with.

"You will find the strength, child. You love your father."

They continued the rest of the way in silence. Christine knew why Madame had insisted that she accompany her home – and it had nothing to do with walking difficulties.

They approached the house slowly, only to see Meg dancing around through the front room window. No matter how much she might complain about her mother's strict regime, the girl was a born dancer; and she thrived on it the way Christine thrived on music. She stopped suddenly, seeing the other two members of her family staring at her with slight grins on their faces.

The door flew open and a rather indignant Meg stood there – knowing better than to come running outside in her pointe shoes – the hip hop she had been dancing to blaring out into the street.

"Maman! Hey, Christine. What were you doing just standing there out in the cold? How can you just watch-"

"Hey, Meg." Christine whispered, barely audible against Meg's rant. Antoinette looked at her, grateful that she had silenced Meg – a minor miracle in itself. Meg stood there a moment, her mouth opening and closing, as though trying to find the words to speak.

"What do you mean, 'hey'? You . . . you . . ." She ran out and grabbed Christine in a fierce hug around her waist, tears falling down her face. And then she promptly smacked Christine on the left shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Marguerite Giry, get back in the house this minute before you do anymore damage to your shoes! Christine, come inside. It is getting a little too chilly for you to be out without a scarf."

"But, Maman-"

"Now, Meg."

Christine was promptly dragged inside by her adoptive sister, who sat her down on the overstuffed couch, shut off the music and promptly began the inquisition.

"Since when? How long? When did you find out?"

"Meg, they all mean the same thing."

"So answer already."

"A few weeks now. I didn't try talking properly until a couple of appointments ago, and only to Uncle Gus."

"Why?"

"She doesn't feel ready to sing." Antoinette answered, sitting opposite her two daughters.

"So? You've got another two months before Gardiner gives you a review. What's the biggy?"

"Papa put a request in his will after Mama . . . There's something he wanted me to do at the funeral, but I couldn't. I have to now, now that I've sung. Now that I can."

"Child, your voice has only just returned, and I am not speaking in terms of time. You can still wait." Advised Madame.

"I've already waited four months. So has he. It's the last thing he asked of me, and I have to fulfil it."

"He wanted you to sing at the funeral?" Meg asked, putting two and two together and for once, getting four.

"He played at Mama's funeral. It was his way of committing her to the angels. It was the only way he could say goodbye. I haven't done that yet. He's still waiting for me."

The three women sat in silence: two, once again, not quite sure of what to do or say; the other facing the enormity of what lay ahead of her.

"All this time, and you never said a word?" Meg questioned, full of astonishment, indignance creeping in.

"I couldn't."

"Yes, you could! You lied to us."

"I didn't lie to you; I didn't tell you. I couldn't. I was too afraid."

"You were afraid of us?" Meg asked, hurt and incredulous.

"I was afraid if I spoke, people would start noticing me too much. I was afraid that I'd be expected to sing before I recovered enough. I was afraid that it wouldn't come back properly. And I was afraid that it would."

"Why would you be afraid of that? You live for music."

"I can't without him! I can't sing that for him. I can't give him up."

Antoinette joined Christine on the couch and put her arms around her. Meg took her hand.

"You will find the strength, child. You love your father."

She looked at her second mother, trying to find what it was she spoke of. She looked at Meg and saw the apology in her eyes. She looked down at their hands. Both mother and daughter had reached out to her, together. They were family. They understood what it was to have that bond with someone. Madame understood what it was to have it broken.

She brushed the tears away and smiled.

"I know."

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_You will find the strength, child. You love your father._

She'd brushed aside almost everything that had happened before those words had been spoken the second time. She replaced it instead with the memories she needed: memories of their music. The tears fell freely until she dredged up the discipline that had been instilled in her from her earliest years. She spent the rest of the evening going over her vocal exercises – but not the ones Uncle Gustave had given her. Trying to put aside the emotion that came with the memories of the last time these notes had come from her, she eventually got back into habits that had almost been forgotten.

She didn't overstretch her voice – she knew better than that, no matter what her intentions. But she did exercise herself until she was again comfortably within the range she needed. Even with the proper breaks, she still managed to spend several hours in vocal exercise.

At length, she looked at the clock. It read eleven. It was time.

She went and changed into the outfit she had laid out earlier. She checked the house one last time to be sure she hadn't forgotten anything – she was stalling and she knew it.

She stepped out into the dark.

It didn't matter how dark it was, she would know this path blindfolded. Just as well really: the moon was hidden. She had travelled it many times in her mind's eye, willing herself back to where her father lay, never having the courage to take the steps, never ready for the reality she would find at the end of them.

She still wasn't ready, but she knew it was time. Eventually, she found herself outside the cemetery. She didn't think about the darkness that would ordinarily have had her cowering in a corner – she couldn't. All she could think about was the little tombstone inscribed with the names of the two people she loved above all others.

She found it, overgrown with weeds and dirt. Untended. Unloved. Had she not gotten herself into a state of mind to keep the tears well and truly at bay, she would have broken down in sobs then and there. She knelt and cleared away the mess, tracing the inscriptions, caressing the names.

She could have spent hours in that position, but the cold ground was seeping through her coat. She looked at her watch: nearly midnight – fairy time. She took her glasses off and let her hair down. She removed it to reveal the warm white dress beneath – the one she would have worn the day the coffin was lowered into the ground, had she had a voice. Having made sure her appearance was exactly what her father had requested, both with words and without, she straightened her back, spread her feet a little and – offering a small prayer for endurance – took a deep breath. And sang.

"_Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu. Qui tollis peccata mundi Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem._

"_Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu. Qui tollis peccata mundi. Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem._

"_Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei"_

"_Qui tollis peccata mundi Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem Dona eis requiem"_

"_Sempiternam Dona eis requiem Sempiternam Requiem Sempiternam."_

She sang the requiem her father had written. He had begun it once he'd accepted the fact his beloved Catherine would hear the angels' song first. He'd played it for her at her funeral; one of the rare times he had allowed his tears to stream onto his precious violin, his daughter at his side.

And he had asked that she sing it for him when the time came, to let him make music with the angels as well. To let herself live.

"For you, Papa. I've kept my promise." She whispered. Her prayer went unspoken in the night wind. The moon chose this moment to come out from behind the clouds, illuminating her completely.

She basked in its light and felt . . . hope.

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 


	23. Chapter 22

**Author's Note: I am so sorry I didn't update yesterday. I'm not sure if it was my computer or or both being obnoxious, but for some reason I wasn't allowed to upload any new chapters. Anyway, here's yesterday's chapter. Hope it answers a few questions that were being asked.**

**Thanks again to Spectralprincess, Busanda, steelelf, Squealing Lit. Fan, WindPhoenix, Shayril, Lady Winifred, Soignante, mildetryth, Rose of Night and osdfnsdaf for their latest reviews. Thanks and enjoy! Nedjmet.

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 22

He had gone straight back to the house, wanting to see her again – wanting to hear her again.

It was quite some time before she returned, by which point his patience had gone. He almost threw all caution to the wind in his temptation to march up to her and demand that she explain her absence, and why she had surrounded him with silence once more. He was stopped, however, by the tear tracks that ran down her face – the side that he could see anyway. She stood with her back leaning against the door – a favoured stance of hers, it seemed – and let the droplets fall. Had breaking her silence cost her so much?

He watched as she wept, and was once more shocked at his reaction: that he wanted to wipe the tears away; that he wanted to _comfort _her.

This child, no matter how innocent, truly was dangerous. Not only had she disrupted part of his home, not only had she – a student! – entered into correspondence with the Opera Ghost, but she was turning said Ghost – the terror of the Ravelle, both students and staff alike – into a sentimental . . . man! After all his years of firmly establishing himself as a phantom; she, in a few short weeks, had managed to begin re-humanising him. What would her continuing presence in his home do? He paused this train of thought: whatever it would do, it surely could not be worse than her absence.

A conclusion which was fully supported when she began to sing again. First warm-ups, then exercises, but not any that he had heard taught at the Ravelle. The methods she used – whilst not quite perfect – were nevertheless excellent for preparing a voice. Her father had taught her to sing? No wonder she had managed to perform so beautifully in spite of her silence, if this was her technique.

She continued in this pattern for quite some time: never straining her voice, only strengthening it; always taking breaks at the correct intervals. Hour after hour this went on. Granted it was only exercises, but as her voice improved with her careful use, so his anticipation increased, as did his grasp of the potential that lay within his grasp. Would that she sing an actual piece! Anything, just so he could hear the skills she truly possessed. Much as he was enjoying the sound of her voice and could appreciate the care she was taking – the wait was torture!

Eventually she stopped. He sprang back to attention, wondering why, if she had gone to all that trouble only to deny him now. He heard her light footsteps on the stairs above his hiding place. Surely she couldn't mean to sleep now? All that work and nothing to test its effect? He was ready to punch the wall in frustration when he heard that same footfall coming down again.

The door opened and closed.

She'd gone out at this time of night? She made every effort to avoid the night's embrace, and yet she was stepping out into the darkness with no regard for the dangers it held? Of which, he knew plenty.

He stepped out from his hiding place and followed her, allowing the shadows to conceal him with their invisible mantle. She had covered herself completely in a dark coat, making trailing her more interesting than he had thought it would be.

She was going to a graveyard? Granted she had been living the life of a spectre, but surely . . .

Her father. What else could she be going there for, but to see him? At least, he hoped that was it. He could predict her routine, but recent events had shown that he could not predict her.

She moved with ease through the paths created by the stone monuments, as though she had walked the trail many times. The darkness did not hinder her at all, and if it bothered her, it did not show.

She finally stopped before a grave. He hid himself behind a tree. It would not do to startle her. Whilst he did not know all, he knew enough to know that she had braved much in venturing out here. The starlight, accompanied with his own keen vision, allowed him to see what she was doing clearly. She tended the little stone with as much care as he imagined she would her own child.

Then she stood. Had she come out so late just to clear a few weeds? That could be done in the daytime surely. Oh! Her behaviour was frustrating.

His silent ranting was stopped as she removed her coat. Her hair was down and her face no longer hidden behind those glasses. His breath caught in his throat at the sight.

His heart stopped along with it when she began to sing.

It was a requiem. One he'd never heard before, astonishingly enough. It was filled with the pain of loss, with a heart's cry of solitude, and yet she gave it a poignant beauty that made him want to weep. She sounded as though she was pouring into it all the emotion she had endured silently these months, along with a sense of relief at finally being able to give it the right voice.

Her tone was even better, now that she had exercised her vocal chords properly in preparation for this performance. Her range was good, though she was not making use of it fully – not that the music suffered as a result of that – it could be even better if given over to his care and instruction.

He strained to hear her as she whispered. She had promised her father that performance? A strange thing to ask of a daughter, if not cruel.

The moon illuminated her.

He drank in the sight of her: the white dress, her golden hair hanging in soft waves down to her waist, her beautiful blue eyes filled with the peace only he had inspired before now, her face that looked like . . .

That she had called him an angel touched him all the more deeply now, for surely she would not mistake one of her own kind. Perhaps her father had been taken because the heavens could not stand to have her place go unfilled. He had known cruelty enough to believe that.

He kept her under his watchful gaze until she was safely home again. It would not do to have such a creature tainted by the evils of the dark.

He hid himself away again, waiting until she was asleep, before he returned to his other home. The locked room on the first floor in the house was indeed a sanctuary for music, but this; these caverns where he truly lived free from the eyes of the world: this was the seat of sweet Music's throne. And he carried Christine's song right into the heart of it.

True, she was in need of training, and a lot of it. But if she could captivate an audience with her voice in its current state . . . his music, her voice . . . they could bring the world to its knees and have all paying homage to music. But how to go about it? He could not try intimidating her, for it would not do to scare her away. He could not do anything Giry would disapprove of, for she would surely remove the girl as soon as she even thought something was wrong.

The organ stayed silent that night, the Music resting and waiting for both its maestro and child. The former contemplating how to bring the latter back home; for as surely as he breathed, Christine Daaë belonged here with the music – and with its master.

He thought of her voice and savoured the memory of it once again.

It was indeed perfect.

Perfect for his music.

Perfect for him.


	24. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: Here's todays chapter, and this doesn't count as an official double update in my book, because one of them was delayed, so if I find the review counter hitting 125 today, I shall post another one. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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**Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 23

She had spent a week waking up to Beethoven's 6th. She had spent a week coming to terms with the fact that she had kept her promise. She had spent a week welcoming back something of a lighter attitude. She had spent a week learning to communicate with people vocally again. She had spent a week getting back into the routine of exercising her voice daily. She had spent a week tolerating the abuse of Carlotta who was now racked with jealousy over the mute who had turned out to be a more than worthy rival.

She had spent a week leaning on the last words of a dying parent, finding patience in a father's promise.

She had spent another week without it being kept.

And she found herself in Vocal Performance, once again.

"Now, provided you have been studying the score as requested, today we shall be examining Shool a roon, and if memory serves me correctly, there is a member of our class who can help with the pronunciation of the words. Miss Day?"

Christine looked up, stifling the smirk that had sprung up over Gardiner's poor pronunciation. She had been hoping this wouldn't happen; that they would find someone else. She still wanted to remain fairly unnoticeable after all, which is why she had only sung on her own that week as part of the circle work, and when asked.

"Yes, Professor?"

"You have some understanding of Gaelic?"

"Yes."

"Enough to teach us how to pronounce the Gaelic in this song correctly?"

She glanced around the circle, seeing mostly curious stares, a few encouraging, and those of disdain from Carlotta and her cronies. She nodded in acquiescence. She then spent the rest of the class working with groups, trying to teach them the finer points of Gaelic pronunciation – no easy task given that the majority seemed determined to speak with accents either from America or the world of opera. Whoever wasn't working with her would be with Professor Gardiner, going over the musical aspects.

The last group of the day that she had to deal with was, inevitably, the group with Carlotta in.

"OK, it looks like the easiest way to do this is learning by rote."

"So what, you'll say it, and we say it back to you?" asked Carlotta. Christine looked at her warily. Surely she understood the principle? Why was she playing dumb?

"Yes."

"So you're actually going to grace us with your voice today then?" Christine just looked at her. She wasn't going to walk into that one.

"Oh no! Somebody fetch Professor Gardiner, I think she's gone mute again." Carlotta exclaimed with an exaggerated, mock tone of concern, causing a few titters from her friends.

"Siúil."

"What?"

"The easiest way to do this is to learn by rote. Siúil."

"You already said that."

"Then perhaps it will sink in this time. Siúil."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"No. You are by failing to follow the lesson. If you'd rather not learn how to perform this song, then go back to the other group. Otherwise, listen and repeat. Siúil."

"Shore."

"The word ends in an 'l'. The last letters are not pronounced with great emphasis, but they are pronounced. Siúil."

"Siúil." Carlotta repeated.

"Good. The rest of you?"

She went round the group, having them each say the first word, and then the first line, and so on; correcting mistakes as she heard them until they were all emulating her reasonably well. When they finished, the bell rang and Professor Gardiner dismissed them, with threats to hear their progress next lesson.

Christine moved away to the side to gather her things, but was followed.

"Listen, Day, I don't know who you think you are, but no one talks to me like that – especially not some little fraud who passed herself off as a mute at the Ravelle!"

Christine finished packing her bag, her back to Carlotta.

"Hey, I'm talking to you."

"I noticed."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to apologise?" Christine turned to face the fuming redhead who had her arms crossed.

"There's nothing for me to apologise for. I was asked to instruct you, which I tried to do. You were being difficult, which I tried to ignore, and you insulted me."

"And you embarrassed me and stole my stage!"

"Siúil a ruin is a lament. You sang it like Carmen, and you didn't know the Gaelic. The song is very important to me and I couldn't let it be done that way. If you'd continued with the second verse I would have stopped."

"How was I supposed to know that?" she snapped.

"I did stop singing during the bridge and looked straight at you. All you had to do was start singing."

"What kind of person would give up the spotlight so easily?" she sneered.

"The kind who respects that someone else was given it first."

"No, a fool! You're just a simple little idiot, Day. What, couldn't be bothered working the first few weeks, or did you find out the calibre of your peers and decide you needed a few catch-up lessons? I've got news for you, mute: you're still in sore need of them, you little toad! No one steals the stage from me, especially not some lying little upstart who spends her time learning stupid languages instead of music."

"For your information, both my parents were Gaelic speakers, as are many of those who can claim an Irish or Scottish heritage and I learnt it from them. You know nothing of me if you believe I have studied nothing of music." She pushed past her 'rival', but turned back as she remembered part of an earlier diatribe: "And when you said I belonged here about as much as a cripple in ballet; if you were referring to Madame Giry, I suggest you rethink your words. As her adoptive daughter, I know all too well how _truly_ stupid it is to get on the wrong side of her."

Carlotta actually paled at these words, before collecting herself and sneering once more. She would have delivered a comeback, but at most, only Christine's back would have heard it as she left the room.

* * *

He watched as she was called upon to teach the class. Why was she so reluctant to be in the limelight? A side-effect of her muteness? Whilst such modesty was certainly refreshing in artists compared to the likes of the Guidacellis, it would not do if she was to be a Prima Donna – and she would be. That would need to be cured, and soon. 

She taught well – if a little hesitantly at first – as though she was trying to find her feet. But she taught as though she remembered learning. It no doubt afforded her more patience in the situation; a good thing really. He was tempted to drop another sandbag, this time directly onto Carlotta, when she started attacking Christine again. But he didn't dare in case he missed – the two were stood too closely together to even seriously consider trying. Still, she handled herself well.

So the Guidacelli girl wasn't content with her first paltry efforts. Did she want to draw blood? Christine didn't rise to any of the bait that was thrown her way. Had there been a crowd, she would have thoroughly humiliated the other girl. Instead, she managed to make her look petty and ignorant, whilst scaring her into submission long enough to make a dignified exit. She truly could have been a worthy candidate to take up the mantle of the Opera Ghost if he had chosen to retire; but he had grander plans for her than the life of a spectre – and she had had taste enough of that world already.

He followed the tunnels along the path that she usually took, hoping to spy her as she began to make her way home.

She wasn't there. He looked in all directions. There was no way she could have escaped his line of sight even if she'd been running. Unless she hadn't left yet. She had yet to let her guard down when alone, but the harpy's words had been crueller than usual, doing more than simply spiting the help that had been graciously offered.

He turned back into the tunnels and kept his ears focused, listening for anything that was out of place from the usual silence of this hour – anything that sounded like her.

He heard what was astonishingly the next best thing: Meg Giry.

Her voice albeit, not quite as pleasant, was much easier to follow. He soon found them, hidden away in one of the storage rooms. They were both curled up on the floor in between two sets. Meg had her right arm around her whilst Christine had her face buried in her hands.

"That bad, huh?" There was no joking this time.

"It wasn't just me. It was Papa and Mama and Mother and Music."

"You stood up to her?" She looked at Little Giry and answered fiercely.

"No one insults them because of me."

"You did good, girl. From what I hear, there's only you and the Ghost who's stood up to her so far."

"What, there's only me and the Ghost who'll defend music?" she said on weak laugh. She coupled herself with him under the same ideal. The words made him smile.

"Looks that way. You gonna be OK?" Christine leaned her head back against the wall.

"I don't know."

"But you're here. You're singing again."

"No I'm not." She replied wearily.

"Christine-"

"Meg, you don't understand. Papa was my world. He was everything to me."

"I know."

"He was my music."

"What do you mean?"

"Mama always used to say that unless you can put your heart into music, then at best it's notes, at worse it's noise. I can't put my heart into music anymore, because Papa took it with him to the grave. The only music I've ever known is the music we made together. He took that to the grave as well. The only thing I have left of music is my voice and I can't use it. I can make the notes, but I can't make music anymore."

"You'll heal, Christine. I know you don't want to hear it, but it's true. You'll heal and then you'll be able to sing again."

"No, Meg. I'm here because Papa wanted it. He wanted the best for me and, that's what he gave me. I'm here because he wanted it, but I can't stay here. I don't have the voice anymore. Papa took it, there's only one person who can return it, and I've been waiting for him and he still hasn't come."

"Who?"

"Papa used to tell me stories from Sweden, stories of the North. My favourites were of Little Lotte. And the Angel of Music. Half the stories he told me were about him. He used to call me Little Lotte sometimes. After Mama was gone, whenever he told me one of those stories he'd promise me that when he was in Heaven he would send me an Angel of Music. I'd tell him that I wouldn't trade him for an Angel, not even for the Angel of Music.

"Papa's gone, Meg. He stayed all this time because of me, even though he wanted to be with Mama. He stayed with me as long as he could, but he's gone home. He took my voice with him and only the Angel can give it back. I've been waiting for him for so long, Meg. I lost my world. I lost my music. If it weren't for you and Mother, I'd have nothing."

Little Giry wrapped her in a fierce embrace as the tears spilt over her lashes.

He watched from the shadows, aching to be the one to hold her. She was a child of music. No wonder she had stayed silent for so long: she knew Music, and she knew its loss.

And he knew how to bring her home.


	25. Chapter 24

**Author's Note: Thanks again to TalithaJ, mildetryth, Rose of Night, steelelf, and CarolROI for their latest reviews. Double thanks to Soignante, Busanda and WindPhoenix for posting two reviews each. Well, we cleared 125, so as promised, here's the next chapter. Once again, it's something a lot of you have been asking for. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 24

"So, scale of one to ten: how much of a Prima Donna is she?" Meg asked, ice cream bowl in hand as they sat once again on the overstuffed couch in the Giry house. Having finished yet another week of classes, the girls were spending the evening unwinding – seeing as Madame was reviewing a dance class run by one of her students at the leisure centre in town and they had the house to themselves.

"I'd say eleven, but from what I hear, that probably describes her mum better. Given the chance, she'd probably live up to that; but at the moment, I'd say a ten." Christine replied; the hints a real smile showing through.

"Why does she have a problem with you?"

"I was a mute in Vocal Performance. Maybe she thinks I stopped a friend of hers from getting in or something. Then she found out I wasn't mute because I sort of stole the show from her when she was meant to be doing a solo."

"Meaning you decided to start singing for whatever reason, knocked everybody's socks off and showed her how it's really done. Don't give me that look, Tina. I know you too well." Meg replied over Christine's silent protests.

"It was Siúil a ruin. Professor Gardiner said to skip the Gaelic because nobody knew it, but she was using the rest of it to flaunt herself. It's a bittersweet song of devotion and lament. She was killing it."

"And I suppose the fact that it was one of your mother's had absolutely nothing to do with your coming to the rescue?"

"She and Papa had enough insults to deal with in their time. I'm not going to let their music suffer as well."

"I still would have loved to see it." Meg returned, grinning cheekily, prompting a slow smile to creep across Christine's mouth.

"It was worth it to see her face."

"Aha! I knew my girl was in there somewhere." Meg crowed triumphantly.

With everything that she had been through, coupled with the fact she was never the most outgoing of people to begin with: it was no wonder that losing her father along with the rest of it had made Christine a very shy person. Seeing signs of the attitude and temper that Meg knew and loved gave her one more reason to hope the girl they had all thought lost would come back some day.

"I'd better going; it'll be getting dark soon." Christine said, looking out of the window.

"That still bothers you?"

"It's not as bad as . . . other things, but I don't know when I'll be comfortable in the dark again."

"In that case: RUN! I'd better get this little lot tidied away before Maman sees and gives me another hour's run anyway."

"Ouch."

"Hey! Don't grin at me like that! It's all down to you, you know."

"Well, I guess I'd better bribe you with the second cupboard above the cooker then."

"If it weren't for my generous nature- Hang on. Does this mean what I think it means?"

"Freshly baked and sealed away yesterday. I figured out how to work the oven."

Meg squealed and threw her arms around Christine, twirling her madly around the front room with a grace that marked them both as children – one way or another – of the ballet mistress. Unfortunately, in her excitement, either Meg's aim or her memory was a bit off.

"Meg!" Christine called out through gritted teeth.

"What? Oh, Christine! I'm so sorry. Are you OK?" she asked, releasing her sister's right side.

"Yeah, it's not as bad as it used to be."

"And you're not as quiet as you used to be." Meg replied, trying to cheer Christine back up a little.

"Pity really. It was starting to rub off on you."

"Why you . . .!" Meg shrieked indignantly. They fought much as they had the last time they'd had an ice cream session, until Christine found herself in the hallway and declared enough.

"Seriously: gotta go." Meg gave her a gentler hug this time, sending her on her way. She watched her sister leave, casting an anxious eye over the clouds that had gathered. It wasn't the darkness setting in that them both worried: it was the rain.

* * *

Christine walked as quickly as she could, trying to get home before the light was gone from the sky. She would have run, but unlike Meg, she wasn't used to it enough to manage the distance between their houses. She had enjoyed her time with Meg immensely. They'd spent the last week catching up – and in spite of Meg's intentions, she was the one who had ended up doing most of the talking, as usual. Neither of them minded. With the exception of a few eggshells that were carefully trodden around, it was almost like old times. Almost. Christine knew what the Girys were hoping, but that girl was gone, and she wouldn't be coming back. Now that her voice had returned, she had to reacquaint herself with the soul behind it, for in its absence, she had changed and her music had undoubtedly changed with it. She wished yet again that there was someone who could guide her as her life moved on in what was thus far an unwelcome direction. Yet again, she sent up her prayer. 

And the heavens opened.

The rain came pouring down. There were only a few drops in warning, before the showers began tumbling heavily. Christine tried to cover herself. Her coat had no hood, and she had no umbrella because there had been no forecast of rain.

Stupid, Christine. Stupid!

With the weather being the inconstancy that it was, she should have kept an umbrella on her all the time, but the fact that she was hardly ever outside had made her take the dry spells for granted. She couldn't let herself get wet. The make-up she used to hide the scars wasn't waterproof – for some reason, that kind had ended up inflaming the marks and delayed their healing even more than the regular sort. There was no way she could make it home in the next few minutes; she was only halfway there.

She looked around frantically.

_Christine_

She could have sworn she heard her name whispered on the wind. Her head flipped around to the direction it came from and she found herself facing one of the back doors of the first theatre. She ran over. At least the building would provide some shelter . . . the door was unlocked! She giddily wondered if an angel had been watching over her after all.

The door closed behind her as she stepped in. She was surrounded by darkness.

She tried to control herself, but before long her breathing was becoming laboured as the familiar panic began to set in.

_Christine_

The whisper calmed her. It was the same one she had heard outside. She moved forwards slowly, following it, trying to find its source. Absent-mindedly she patted her face, checking that her make-up was still in tact. Nothing felt out of place.

She felt the ground rising upwards. Soon her shoes were clicking on a wooden floor. She knew that sound: she was on the stage.

"Is someone there?" She called out timidly, feeling foolish.

No voice answered.

But a violin began playing.

Christine's hand flew to her mouth to hold back a sob as she recognised the sweet sound that could only come from a violin when in the hands of a true master of the craft. It was a sound she had only ever heard from her father.

But he had never played this.

It was the music from the house. It was the music that had saved her from the darkness of her dreams; just it was now saving her from the darkness of both the theatre and her mind. She kept silent, waiting to hear if it would be played in its entirety. She prayed with every fibre of her being that it was not some illusion her mind had created in its panic.

The last notes died away.

She tried again.

"Wh . . . Who's there? Please answer me." The question came out on a tremor; the request, on a whisper. Silence. She was about to weep – whether from frustration or desolation she did not know – when a soft, beautiful voice called out:

"Christine."

* * *

He had followed her from the Giry residence. He had not risked watching the two girls through the window. There was no way he could do that without being seen. And there was no way even he could enter the house without Giry knowing. She knew him too well after all, especially in her own home. 

She had walked quickly. What was it about the darkness that bothered her so? Her actions on their own would ordinarily point to a rational concern over the dangers of being outside in the dark; but when taken into consideration with everything that he had seen of her: this was a full-blown fear of the darkness itself. Why? If she sought to go unnoticed, surely the comforting mantle of night would be welcome to her.

As the rain began, she stopped. It would not do for her to be caught in this downpour: her throat had suffered enough already; a cold was unacceptable. She was near neither the Giry residence, nor his house. But she was very near to his home. He had spent long enough waiting for her: first to hear her voice, then trying to find a way to reach her, then looking for the opportune moment.

Perhaps the latter had finally arrived.

He swiftly reached the building and unlocked the stage door, slipping inside and heading towards the upper levels – but not before throwing his voice, calling out to her so that she followed. He did not head towards his box until he knew that she was moving towards the stage.

He watched her from the shadows. She looked so lost, yet she was right where she belonged.

She called out to the darkness. By this time his violin was ready. Whether anyone came into the box or not, it would not have been found: there were enough secrets in the theatre – of which only he was aware – to ensure that.

Ordinarily he would have lost himself in the music, seeking a release. He sought something else this time. He watched every emotion that crossed her face as he played. So she had remembered, and he had been right in his estimation of what his music meant to her.

What _his_ music meant to _her_.

The idea warmed his heart, although he could not have explained why if he had realised it.

She was on the verge of tears as he finished and – flattering and accurate as it would have otherwise been – he had a feeling it was not simply because of the skill and beauty with which he had played.

"Wh . . . Who's there? Please answer me."

He closed his eyes; once more relishing the sound of her voice, preparing himself, getting himself under control for what would follow. Using all the power and skill he possessed, all the beauty he could muster and convey with the spoken word, he answered.

"Christine."


	26. Chapter 25

**Author's Note: Well, time to put you all out of your misery. Sorry this update took so long. I'm back home now, so I have to share the net (I think I've said this before, but apologies again).**

**Thanks again to Soignante, TalithaJ, steelelf, osdfnsdaf, Busanda, WindPhoenix, Squealing Lit. Fan, Mystery Guest (mega thanks for another mega review), mildetryth and D. Jenks for their latest reviews.**

**Hope you all like and approve this one. It is something else you've been asking for. Thanks and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 25

"Who's there?"

She had thought the music a dream. The voice was so beautiful; she was inclined to stick with that belief.

"Have you forgotten?"

It seemed to be coming from a different side of the theatre now. She whipped her head around, trying to see anything that could indicate a person. It was useless – what with all the seats and tiers and boxes, there was a myriad of hiding places. She decided to play it out.

"Forgotten? If I had heard such a beautiful voice before, I know I'd remember."

"Thank you." The voice carried a smile, as it came from somewhere in front of her this time. "But it is not that of which I speak."

"Who are you? Do not toy with me." She answered, growing frustrated with whatever the masquerade was.

Silence.

She was ready to storm out and brave the rain but stopped. The sound of her father's requiem being played with such a bitter sweetness had her instead collapsing to the floor. This time, she didn't manage to hold back a sob as she called out in a choked whisper to her father. The quiet extended once more after the final note. Christine remained on the stage floor, her head bowed, praying that she was not being deceived.

"Have you forgotten?" The question came again.

She raised her head, and with a trembling voice called out to the dark.

"Angel?" A pause. Had she frightened him away?

"Yes, child. I am here."

She sobbed and let the tears flow.

* * *

It was the first time he had said her name. It was a beautiful sound on his lips and it felt wonderful saying it – it felt right. She asked for him again. No. For this to work, she had to be the one to name him; consciously and of her own inspiration. She had to name him once more. 

So she appreciated his voice. Granted there was little he could not do with it; to have a devotee of music appreciate it – enough! She appreciated it, and it was because it was she that he appreciated the compliment. He had no intention of toying with her though! He had to make her see that, and so he drew his bow lovingly across the strings again.

The requiem was truly a thing of beauty. It had not taken him long to work out the score – her performance was etched in both his mind and his heart, and it would not be soon forgotten. In his preparations for this, he had searched through every record in the Ravelle, every record that he possessed. He had utilised every source that he could think of, and he had not been able to find the piece anywhere. He had concluded that it must have been an original of Daaë's. Why else would she have sung it before the little stone?

His theory was corroborated somewhat when she sank to the floor. He was tempted to stop playing – even though he loathed leaving music unfinished – when he saw her reaction, but he knew that he had to continue if he was to have her attention focused completely on him; that each note had to be played to completion if he was to draw her under his wing and make her his.

He let the dying whispers weave their final magic before he asked her again.

"Have you forgotten?"

She raised her head. How is it she managed to be lovely even when in turmoil?

"Angel?"

He closed his eyes. She had answered. With one word, she had done the impossible. With one sweet, blessed word, she had won him.

"Yes, child. I am here."

And he knew without a doubt that it would always be so.

* * *

Her tears flowed freely – on her left side, anyway. She didn't care if she looked a fool: he was here! She had waited for so long, and finally her father had kept his promise. He hadn't lied to her. The Angel was here! 

Wasn't he?

Could this all be some cruel trick? After all, she had waited such a long time, gone through so much, and wanted it to be true so badly; if it was somebody's idea of a joke then she was definitely making it too easy for them.

"You weep. I had not thought my presence would be so unwelcome."

The voice seemed to be fading.

"No!" She cried out in desperation. Trick or not, she could not lose whoever it was before she found out the truth. "Forgive me; it's just that I've waited so long."

"Yes, your devotion to me is unmistakable, yet you forsook music. You cannot believe in me and reject the gift I would give."

"I could not sing."

"I know you lost your voice, and that it has returned only recently. You were right in not straining it too soon. But you turned your back on music in its other forms, consigning yourself to a world of silence. The loss you suffered was tremendous indeed, but turning from true beauty cannot have eased it."

"It didn't. It made it harder. But I knew no music which didn't remind me of what was lost. I didn't want to abandon music, but the only kind I knew was the one I couldn't bear. Music has returned to me though."

She paused there, realising she had given much away. If this was the Angel of Music, then he would not need further explanation.

"Indeed. And you have accepted it well. Still, I had to wait until your faith was fully restored before I could listen to the pleas of your father and come to you."

"My father?"

"Yes, a true believer in music. The earth does not mourn the loss of him as it should, but the heavens delight to have him. He taught you well. There are few now who believe in me as you have. Had you not turned your back on music, his promise would have been honoured much sooner."

More tears silently fell. No one outside of the Girys' and Uncle Gustave knew of her father's promise. There was no one else here who knew the extent to which she had ignored music.

"Forgive me." She begged in a whisper.

"All is forgiven," Her head snapped up. It was as though the voice had spoken directly into her ear; but there was only darkness, "provided your dedication remains true now."

"How can I prove that?"

"You are a child of Music, Christine, and it is time for you to remember. Your faith in me has been proven, and so I have decided to teach you. Come here at eight each night and I shall instruct you."

Eight? The nights were getting longer; soon she would be walking home from classes under darkening skies. Coming here so late would mean venturing out into the darkness every night. She frantically reached around in her mind for some more practical reason she could use.

"What if someone were to see?"

"You need not concern yourself with that. I have been watching over you Christine, waiting for you to return. I will continue to keep you safe, so long as you remain true to me."

He had known just what to say. Now, so did she. She stood.

"You are the Angel of Music. I could not do otherwise."

"Good, Christine. I am Music's Angel and you are her child. Together, we shall reach up and show the world what Music truly is." She could feel her cheeks turning red. Whether he was stating his intentions or he actually meant it, the complement was a tremendous one.

"Go now, child. The rain has eased off. You should be able to make it back if you hurry."

"Thank you . . . Angel."

She said with a smile, before turning and hurrying off home. So intent was she on obeying the instruction, that she did not see the shadow that appeared in one of the boxes, reaching down to her from the darkness.

* * *

She was crying? Had her hopes been built upon this so much? She had to have grown up with music as well as those stories she had mentioned to Little Giry, which would make her faith a little more understandable. But to truly believe with such fervour? He had to snap her out of. Her tears would not do her voice any good, and she had shed far too many as it was. 

He cast his voice so that it faded from her ears as he spoke. She cried out for him. She apologised, but said little. Clearly, he still had to convince her.

"Yes, your devotion to me is unmistakable, yet you forsook music. You cannot believe in me and reject the gift I would give."

She could not reject him. Whether this worked or not, that much was certain.

"I could not sing."

He cursed the fact. But wait; she was probing.

"I know you lost your voice, and that it has returned only recently. You were right in not straining it too soon. But you turned your back on music in its other forms, consigning yourself to a world of silence. The loss you suffered was tremendous indeed, but turning from true beauty cannot have eased it."

The silence she had lived in those first weeks would have driven him mad were it not for his lair. The rebuke was justified, and if she responded well to his harshness, it would make it all the easier to teach her.

"It didn't. It made it harder. But I knew no music which didn't remind me of what was lost. I didn't want to abandon music, but the only kind I knew was the one I couldn't bear. Music has returned to me though."

She still didn't believe. Or at least she had doubts. She was leaving too many doors open for him to err. Could it be he was actually thankful Giry had aroused his curiosity so much?

"Indeed. And you have accepted it well. Still, I had to wait until your faith was fully restored before I could listen to the pleas of your father and come to you." If that didn't work, there was little that would.

It worked.

The words he spoke of her father were heartfelt – no matter that he was on poor terms with the heavens – for he had been a true musician, and he sorely regretted having only heard him play once.

She asked him for forgiveness. An angel seeking pardon from a demon? Could it be she was asking forgiveness for her unbelief? Whatever the reason, he granted her request and took the opportunity, speaking into her ear, regretting that the rest of him was not that close.

"You are a child of Music, Christine, and it is time for you to remember. Your faith in me has been proven, and so I have decided to teach you. Come here at eight each night and I shall instruct you."

"What if someone were to see?"

A reasonable concern, but there was more than that in her eyes. He would have to learn where this fear of hers stemmed from. If she were to truly accept him, then it would make matters very awkward.

"You need not concern yourself with that. I have been watching over you Christine, waiting for you to return. I will continue to keep you safe, so long as you remain true to me."

He had tried everything the conversation had allowed. It was now all down to her: whether or not she would accept what he was trying to give. Waiting was torture, and she had been teaching him the lesson well. She stood.

"You are the Angel of Music. I could not do otherwise."

The bargain was sealed. His hope was secure.

She was his.

"Good, Christine. I am Music's Angel and you are her child. Together, we shall reach up and show the world what Music truly is."

He could not recall the last time he had spoken with such a genuine warmth. He had answered her prayers, and she had answered is in return. She was the angel – and a blushing one at that. He listened carefully, checking whether or not it was safe for her to leave. Right now, it was only her promise that she would return that meant he let her.

"Go now, child. The rain has eased off. You should be able to make it back if you hurry."

She did not like the dark, and the rain would probably fall again this night. She might as well have the excuse to hurry.

"Thank you . . . Angel."

She had called him 'Angel'. No doubts, no questions, no illusions. She had consciously called him angel. He reached down for her as she left, wanting her to stay. As soon as the door shut and he saw his hand over the edge of the box, he drew back. How had the Ghost gotten so careless? He knew the answer. It was hurrying back to his house with the promises of an angel.

For better or worse, he was now bound to that role. The irony of it!

He turned and ran along the tunnels – of which there were more in this building than any other of the Ravelle.

He had said he would watch over her, and he was a man of his word.

Just as he was bound, so was she. So long as he was an angel to her, she would be true to him. And he did not allow harm to befall anything that was his.


	27. Chapter 26

**Author's Note: Thanks again to terbear, CarolROI, steelelf, Busanda, Soignante, WindPhoenix, Rose of Night, Lady Winifred, Shayril (double thanks, glad that got cleared up), mildetryth and Spectralprincess for their latest reviews. I've a sneaking suspicion that this chapter will send us over 150 reviews. If it does, I'll do the double posting tomorrow instead of today.**

**Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

**

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**Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 26

"You let her go out alone at this time of night with rain threatening?" Madame Giry yelled at her daughter. Meg had been worried when Christine had left; and by the time the rain started falling, she'd realised what a bad idea it really was.

"She wanted to get home before it got dark. I didn't see the clouds until after she'd gone."

"What time did she leave?"

"About an hour ago. She won't have made it in time, will she?" Meg said, realising exactly why her mother was so upset.

"Come on."

They got in the car, Madame Giry taking the wheel. Meg was still learning to drive, and Antoinette wasn't about to let a slight limp that was barely noticeable stand between her and her second daughter. She dreaded to think of the state that Christine would be in if she had indeed been caught in the rain. The darkness had an oppressive feel to it that foretold the arrival of a full-blown storm. And whatever she thought about it would no doubt be magnified an awful lot in Christine's mind.

They drove the route to Christine's house slowly; scouring everywhere they could see, trying to find her. No one was around the campus at this time of night, so their task was made somewhat easier. It was with some relief that they couldn't; but at the same time, it was very worrying because of the possibility that the weather had forced her to take shelter elsewhere.

"Maman, look!" Meg called out. Antoinette brought the car to a quick stop. There were lights on in the house. She'd made it home? She drove the car the rest of the way; they got out and knocked on the door.

Christine opened it. Smiling. And there was music playing in the house!

"Child, you are well?" Antoinette asked as the two were let in.

"Mmhm. Why?"

"We thought you'd been caught in the rain or something." Meg answered, wondering what had gotten into her sister.

"I nearly did, but I found somewhere to wait it out."

"Christine, what has happened?" Madame asked, not quite understanding her attitude either.

"Happened?"

"I have not seen you so . . . happy in the longest time." She elaborated.

Christine was about to answer but paused, not knowing whether the Angel would want her to speak of him. He had remained hidden after all, and was very selective about those to whom he chose to reveal himself.

"I'm relieved not to have been caught in the rain. And I'd forgotten how beautiful it can be." She replied. Meg accepted this – still not understanding what the deal was with the music – but acknowledging that Christine's worry would have been great. Antoinette, however, recognised the look her second daughter wore: she was hiding something. That; and her answer just wasn't plausible enough.

"So what's with the music?" Meg asked, still curious.

"Appalachian Spring. I was missing it."

"What?"

"Music. I've ignored it too long, and I need more of it in my life than just wake-up calls."

"So, you're OK?"

"Yes. Did I really have you two that worried?" She returned in good-humoured exasperation.

"We aren't likely to stop worrying any time soon, _ma petite_. Especially when you decide to walk around outside in the dark." Madame gently admonished. Of course they'd been worried!

"Sorry, Mother." That took the wind out of her sails. It was the first time Christine had called her 'mother' to her face since she'd started speaking again.

"You are well, my dear. That is enough." She said, before showing herself and Meg out; with the usual apologies for Meg's schedule being the reason for such a hasty departure – nothing to do with the disapproving glare of the shadow that she had seen through the window, of course.

Christine closed the door behind them and leaned back against it, as was her habit after a particularly odd or trying event. This time though – as with the last – she smiled. Music hadn't abandoned her, nor had it forgotten her. She wasn't worried about the dark as she climbed up the stairs – for she knew that it wouldn't be haunting her dreams this night.

The Angel was watching.

* * *

She had gone straight home and headed towards one of the rooms that had clearly been designated for storage. He had wondered at her behaviour as he watched her. Had he thought long enough, he would have wondered at his own: exposing himself so much; risking being seen so often. 

Her actions had been made clear, however, when music began to fill the house. Slow, gentle clarinet music, riding gently on the back of a string section; growing, developing until it burst forth, full of life. Copland was an interesting choice of hers: modern, leaning towards jazz; emotive and beautiful. Probably chosen because of the ease with which it could be listened to. There was nothing so deeply stirring as, say, Stravinsky's work – to name a contemporary – in the ballet, so it was not liable to stir up any unwelcome or painful emotions. But it would soothe, relax and delight, nevertheless.

A good choice, Christine.

_Christine_

She was his. He still couldn't believe it. Neither had she, to begin with. He would have to work hard to ensure those doubts didn't surface again. He couldn't be too careful if this was to work: if he was to give her voice wings, if he was to take her to the haven of Music's sanctuary.

If they were both to heal.

He was about ready to jump out of his hiding place in fury at the intruders when the knocking began on the door. He was relieved when it was the Girys. So there was a similar concern about the rain as with the darkness. Had she a fear of that too? Surely not, for Little Giry had accepted her reply readily enough. What more unspoken secrets had he to learn of his protégé?

He travelled through the tunnel and came around to the front – remaining invisible, save for Giry's eyes. She got the message. He had given his word that he would be watching her, that her safety was assured. Her continuing enquiries about her charge – whilst touching – were growing more insulting with each passing moment.

He had disappeared by the time they emerged –he had gone back to watching Christine.

She smiled. He had done that, he knew it.

Once she had climbed the stairs, he sunk back down into the tunnels.

He needed to be more careful. Yes, he had sworn to watch over her, but he was letting himself be too careless, and this had only just begun! That he had spoken to her was enough to expose him. She had not mentioned him to Giry, although she was not fool enough to accept the excuse offered in return. She would keep their relationship secret?

Their relationship.

He didn't know whether he should laugh. He didn't know what to think. Was it possible? Could it be called that? Perhaps in time. Perhaps in time, she . . . No! That way lay madness. Yet what sweet bliss it promised.

He would have to ensure that she kept their . . . meetings secret. It would not do to have the giggling ballet girls trying to brave the theatre in order to find him. Buquet was far too nosy as it was; were he to learn that a girl was meeting with the Ghost, who knows what he would do – if he laid a finger on _his_ Christine . . . enough!

He longed for the day to pass, that he might begin shaping her voice. Hearing it would be enough to satisfy him at present.

It came to him; softly, slowly at first.

Music.

It was a music full of longing, but this time there was anticipation; the promise of things to come. Oh, this music was rich and full, not like the first piece he had played for her. That still required words, and it would have them soon enough. But not now. There was another set of notes demanding to be written.

Of course!

If he was to shape her voice, craft it to bring the world to its knees, she would need music with an equal, if not greater power. If she were to let him take her voice to the heights he knew it could reach, then it would be a crime to have it wasted on the paltry efforts of any ordinary composer.

He flew down to his lair; snatching up paper, pen and ink as he made his way to the organ. He didn't even bother to hang up his cape. He closed his eyes: picturing Christine illuminated by the moonlight, hearing her sweet song again. He let the music wash over him and guided by her light, he made his way through the dark depths that lay before him, bringing life to the black notes that began to fill the page as the sound filled the caverns.

Yes, this would be his masterpiece.

And her voice would be worthy of it.

Just as she was.


	28. Chapter 27

**Author's Note: First of all, my apologies that this chapter is so short. There's no way I can think of to make it longer without waffling/descending into cliche or whatever. The stuff here did need to be said, and I promise the next chapter (whichwill followshortly, I did promise a double update after all) will be a bit 'meatier' as requested by WindPhoenix - for everyone else, it'll be actual plot instead of filler. Thanks for bearing with me.**

**Secondly, thanks again to Spectralprincess, Busanda, steelelf, WindPhoenix, Soignante, Lady Winifred, mildetryth and angelofmusicxx for their latest reviews. You guys really know how to keep me going. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 27

Beethoven woke her again, as was her habit; but this time she didn't pay attention to the symphony, or let it carry her through her morning routine. The music that filled her was the song of a violin that played with a sweetness and skill beyond even that of her father. The music that filled her thoughts and threatened to drown her senses once more was that of an angel.

An angel?

The Angel of Music.

She knew the stories, had cherished them as she grew, had kept them close to her heart for as long as she could remember. Yet in spite of all this, she could not claim to know all the workings of an angel, even the angel of music.

Why now? Why had he come now?

Yes, her voice had come back, but that had happened weeks ago. Surely if he wished to craft it as he'd said, his work would have begun sooner when the damage was repairing. Or was it because it had taken her this long to return to music? That would make sense, but if he was to guard her as he promised; if he was to keep her as he had said, then why wait? Why prolong the pain? _The face. _The white face when she had moved in . . . had that been him watching over her then. Why had he not revealed himself truly, let her know that he was there? Did he await her faith? That had never wavered. Her devotion to music? Had she found a music sooner that was not . . . had she found a music that was unfamiliar, yet welcome: then there would have been evidence enough of her devotion.

He had spoken of her devotion _to him_. That had never wavered. Why had he waited?

She wanted to believe so badly.

Maybe that was the problem.

She had been waiting so long for her father's promise to be kept. It was not impossible that someone could know; that someone could be using that. But who? She knew of no one who possessed such a voice, nor had she ever heard the like before. It had been rich, soft, deep; melodious, even in speech . . . heavenly. Saying that such a voice belonged to the Angel of Music could not possibly be even remotely heretical.

She wanted to believe.

But the timing. And why the theatre? Yes, it was a glorious building; capable of being a worthy home to some of the world's finest music: but what need had an angel of that? Was it for her? She was yet neither ready nor worthy. He would not want her to become proud, surely, for that would not do her any good during lessons. What need had an angel of such a setting, one where he or his disciple could easily be discovered. He obviously sought to remain hidden. Was it a test of her loyalty?

Her mind swam with questions. Her devotion and faith in the Angel had been strong and true all these years. Why was she plagued with doubts now that he had finally come? Perhaps it was too good to be true? Perhaps she was afraid to believe: for once the promise had been kept – if she proved true – then the Angel would leave. She would be left with Music, but she would be without a guide and guardian who _knew_. How could this all come about and she still keep her heart intact? How could she devote herself to this angel, only to lose him once his work was done?

Too many questions. Too many doubts. Too many fears.

Still too many fears.

She needed the Angel. She needed the promise of her father to be kept. She needed an angel.

She would trust in this angel. She would listen to her heart and follow the music. Time would tell if he was true.

She was a child of Music.

She could recognise its Angel.


	29. Chapter 28

**Author's Note: Double update as promised. Sorry it took so long - bit of a crazy day, so I couldn't really write before now. Hope this makes up for it a bit. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 28

She stood in the darkness once more. This time she was afraid. She had not been led here by a disembodied voice – no matter how divine – she had simply followed the instructions said voice had given last night. Now she stood on a vast stage, alone, and surrounded by the blackness she feared so intensely.

She knew she was on time. She'd checked the hour before coming in. The door had been unlocked, waiting for her. He knew she was here. He had to know.

She cast her eyes around frantically, trying to see anything in the darkness – and having about as much success as the last time. What if someone had broken in, and that was the reason the door was unlocked? What if it indeed was some elaborate practical joke, and it was all about to come crashing down on her? What if-

"You are frightened, child. Did I not say I would continue to keep you safe?"

"Angel." She breathed in relief.

"Did I not say I would continue to keep you safe?" The voice repeated, demanding an answer.

"Yes, Angel."

"Then why do you stand quivering on that stage? Does the idea of my presence intimidate you so much? Are you anxious about being on a stage such as this? Or is your faith in me not what had come to believe?"

"Forgive me, Angel. I did not doubt your word; I only doubted myself."

Her answer was met with silence, so she continued; afraid that she had offended her tutor before he had even given her a lesson.

"I have been praying so long that you would come, and when I finally heard your voice, I was afraid that I had dreamt it, that my longings had finally deceived my senses."

"You doubted me." It was not a question.

"Please, forgive me, Angel. I did not know what to do once I learnt that the promise was being kept. My doubts stemmed from that, and so I doubted myself."

"That is not why you stood afraid." At least he seemed to have accepted her answer. It was true – at least, the side of it that would not offend.

"No. It is probably silly, especially with you watching over me, but I fear the dark."

"The dark cannot hurt you, child."

"Yes, it can." She whispered quietly.

"You speak from experience; else I do not believe you would argue with me."

"I would not." He closed his eyes, fighting back rage as possibilities flew through his mind as to what she spoke of. She, on the other hand, was praying that she would not be questioned further on the subject.

"Let us begin. You have gone long enough without proper instruction. Stand." She was already stood, but knew what he meant and so assumed the proper stance that she had been taught would support her voice fully.

"Lower your chin a little. Bring your right foot forward slightly. Do not wring your hands so. They should remain at your sides unless the music demands otherwise." She adjusted her posture as his dictations came.

A piano note sounded. She whipped her head round, trying to find its source; although like the voice, it too appeared to come from anywhere and everywhere.

"Why do you seek me?" She stopped looking, hearing the slight rebuke that was there.

"Is it wrong for me to want to know the one who has given me hope?" A sigh.

Angels sighed?

"Child, as an angel, I cannot reveal myself to you. Nor would you wish it. I must ask that you do not try to find me. Or that you speak of our lessons to anyone."

She mulled these words over, storing them away in her mind.

"I understand. As you say, Angel."

"C"

He took her through various warm-ups and drills: some, similar to the ones he had heard her practising with; others that were of his own devising. He worked her gruellingly, yet never came close to straining her voice, fearful of any damage that might remain. After an hour though, he realised that the only fault he could detect was a lack of use.

She was overwhelmed by his methods and instructions. Some were familiar, others seemed a little odd, but ended up being far more sophisticated exercises than she had ever come across before. Whenever he instructed her to rest, a little glass of water would appear on the table waiting just off-stage for her. Either he truly was an angel, or else a magician with a phenomenal knowledge of the workings of music.

Having thoroughly warmed up her voice – to say the least – he began taking her through her range. The lower notes were quiet, as was to be expected. When she strained on a high 'A' he stopped.

"You are nervous."

"A little, yes."

"There is no need for bravado, child. You are nervous, and it is telling on your performance. You can reach that note easily; I hear it in your voice. But you are allowing fear to choke it. I know your fears, child. I know your unease over your voice. Put your trust in me. Your voice shall return and together, we will take it to heights you could only dream of."

"I trust you, Angel."

"Do you trust yourself?"

"Angel?"

"So long as you doubt your abilities, especially for something so simple as what I ask of you now, there is little I can do. You must trust not only that I can teach you, but that you have the ability to be taught. Think of your father. He believed it, or he would not have petitioned me for so long."

Christine shut her eyes. He knew exactly what to say. And did just as the last time he had worked this magic.

"You are the Angel of Music. I could not do otherwise." She repeated, believing it.

"Very well. Again." He spoke warmly, gladdened at her choice of words, before returning to his strict abruptness.

They continued in this fashion: testing her range, strengthening her voice with the exercises; until another hour had passed.

"Enough for tonight. Go home and rest, child."

She turned away and moved over to the table, downhearted. All that work and not one word of praise for her efforts. She knew she had made progress. She was no angel, but she could hear the difference in her voice. There was not even a comment to show that he was taking pride in his work. Was she really so badly out of practice?

She stopped wondering.

Next to the newly-filled water glass lay a deep red rose, a black ribbon tied around its thornless stem. The rose spoke of respect, of beauty and of . . . admiration.

She didn't need words. She had his answer.

"Thank you . . . Angel."

He watched her leave. She had progressed well. Far better than he had hoped for the first lesson. They still had a long way to go, but he was more hopeful than he had been in a long while. He had seen her disappointment at his manner. He had also seen the look as she accepted his gift. It would not do to fill her head with words that could induce a prideful attitude. Instead he had left something that had proved far more precious. The flower spoke of many things, but also of an unselfconscious beauty. That was a characteristic she displayed constantly. That was something that he treasured.

She knew the meaning of flowers.

It appeared to have worked better than a note.

* * *

Their lessons continued each night. Each night, she would have to come up with something to keep Meg from calling either in person or on the phone whilst she was out. Soon though, she seemed to get the hint for one reason or another. Each night, she would be worked almost to the point of exhaustion. It seemed that the more she learnt, the more she had to prove herself. Her angel was always the same. Only ever criticism, never praise. But always a rose. She had taken to drying them in one of the spare rooms of the house, so that she could preserve them once the blooms started to fade. 

There was never anything other than the lessons between them. During her breaks the voice would be silent, only resuming instruction once she had had sufficient time to rest. Christine began to dislike this. She felt as though she had known this . . . being her whole life, and yet he was behaving like a total stranger. Surely if he had been watching over her, he could afford to be a _little_ more familiar at least?

* * *

"No, child! Remember your breathing. You cannot hope to call yourself a soprano unless you support the notes properly." She had been told this more times than she cared to count in recent days. 

"Forgive me, Angel. I think I must be tired." She did not usually respond: ordinarily she would silently accept the criticism and correct the error as best she could. Her reply had a slight edge to it, however.

"Tired? We have barely begun this evening and already you are tired? Have you commitments elsewhere on which to spend your energies? Or perhaps you have yet to master this fear of yours that prevents you from being true to your art." Came the exasperated reply

"I am tired, but it is not because of these lessons. I have been worked this hard for a long time, and I'm still getting used to it. You know I have no other commitments; that I couldn't have. And it is not fear that holds me back."

"Then what is it?" Her head came up from her usually submissive stance whenever she addressed the Angel. Surely he ought to know? And why had he been so angry: could angels be angry?

"I can't feel the music." Silence. She took the hint. "Before, when I was able to sing, I felt the music everywhere. I heard it wherever I went. I knew its presence, constantly around me. I couldn't help but sing because it bid me do so. I haven't been able to feel the music except when I gave my father his requiem. That was the last that I had in me. I do appreciate all that you have done, all the progress we've made," _We_. It sounded so beautiful coming from her lips, "but I don't know how to make the most of it as you wish."

He heard her words, the silent plea. Then he did the only thing he could think of that would inspire her. He gave her his music.

He sang.

* * *

**Author's Note (again):** **Sorry to leave you guys hanging like that, but there's a direction I want to take this that would basically end up with a really long chapter unless I leave you with this rather nasty cliffy. Much as I'd love to give you a longer chapter, I need sleep, so you'll have to settle for the suspense and wait for tomorrow's update. Sorry (not really)! Nedjmet.**


	30. Chapter 29

**Author's Note: To make up for the craziness of the last two chapters (short one and a cliffhanger), here's a nice long one that I think you'll enjoy. Well, there's that, and I couldn't think of an earlier place to stop that worked and would give me two chapters of a decent length each.**

**Thanks again to steelelf, Busanda (double thanks), Soignante, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ, WindPhoenix (double thanks), Cymbidium, mildetryth, Spectralprincess, Squealing Lit. Fan, Rose of Night and osdfnsdaf for their latest reviews. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 29

She was in ecstasy. There was no other word for it. His speaking voice was beautiful enough to draw her through the depths of her fears; but when he sang! Surely only the Angel could wield such power in music.

"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless; yearning for my guidance."

He began gently, ensuring that she was captivated by every note – not that that would have been a problem.

"Too long you've wandered in darkness, far from my far-reaching gaze."

His voice grew stronger, singing as though such an idea was a crime.

"And though your mind beats against me; you resist, yet the soul obeys!"

His crescendo drew Christine to the front of the stage as she tried to reach her angel. She could not help it; she could not resist any longer. He drew her voice out and she let the music carry her.

"Angel of Music! I denied you, turning from true beauty. Angel of Music! My protector, come to me strange angel."

Neither of them had been expecting her to respond that way, and so the silence lingered a few moments after the last words.

"That, Christine is music."

She had sung with such passion! Her voice had yet to display any real emotion – except for fear or anxiety – since they had merely been doing exercises designed to repair the damage that time and circumstance had caused. There had been a dullness to her voice, as though she had no spirit with which to sing. But now! The first notes she had truly sung, and they had been devoted solely to him, her angel.

Angel.

She had sung for an angel. Not a man. Not the monster hidden away within the shadows. How was he ever to truly reach her so long as he remained an angel in her eyes? How was he ever to have a chance if she learnt of his deceit?

Christine.

How had she managed to confound him so? And what in the depths was he to do about it?

* * *

"It is time to see how much you have managed to learn. You will find a score on the table."

Christine moved over to the table that was usually home to her water – and her rose. The angel never greeted her, he merely began with his instructions; she had gotten used to it by now. It was enough that he was here. Though it was still dark, she managed to see the shape of the papers resting on the little table. As she drew nearer to the front of the stage again, a few of the lights came up – enough to see the music by, but not enough to illuminate much else.

Why did an angel cling to the darkness so much? Was she not meant to see the full extent of his divinity? But surely there were better methods than simply turning out the lights. Or was it that he was trying to alleviate her fear of the dark? Why not her greater fear then?

Enough!

She had sung for him at their last lesson, and the words had come not only from the promptings of Music and its angel, but also from her heart. She had sung to the Angel who was giving her voice wings, and teaching her to use them. Enough of these doubts; they could not interfere with her lessons.

She looked at the score. She almost dropped it in astonishment.

It was another song of her mother's – but this was one that had been written specifically for her. Her parents had argued over this one furiously. Her father was of the persuasion that Beethoven's work should not be meddled with to such an extent; that he original could not be compared with – provided it was performed properly. Her mother believed that the song was a thing of beauty and the arrangement was true music; that it allowed another side to Beethoven's work and ideas to be brought out. They could have argued that for days and never reach an agreement. Which is why her mother had usually ended it by singing; which is why she usually won.

Christine closed the music and clutched it to her heart. How many more reminders would she have to face? Or was this the Angel's way of returning her music to her?

"You do not look at the score. Do you find it too simple?" Came the voice; in a tone that suggested that that clearly shouldn't be the case.

"No. I know how difficult it is. But I don't need the music."

"You know this piece?" He needed to ask?

"I couldn't help but know it."

"There are few who have come across that music. You know the work of Katie O'Neill?" His voice seemed to thicken as he pronounced the name.

There was something wrong here. If the Angel had come from her father, he had to know the identity of her mother. If he was an angel and had been watching over her as he said, he would have known that anyway. As her previous doubts began to flood her mind, she decided to test him.

"I suppose you could say I was one of her greatest fans. There's little about her work that I don't know."

"Indeed." The voice was edged with disbelief. "Then let us begin."

It wasn't the violin this time. From somewhere seemingly above her came the sound of a piano. No doubt he could have made the violin suit the music, but the piano gave the song the subtlety it required, but also allowed for the grandeur of the fanfares and closing stanza. This song had always been one of her mother's favourites and as such, it had been one of hers – although she had learnt to love it for its own sake as she grew in her musical awareness. She always managed to fall under its spell.

During the initial fanfare, Christine closed her eyes, allowing the beat to carry her to the centre of the stage a little before she began.

"All believing, all embracing; Earth below and sky above. There will never be a power greater than united love."

She began to raise her hands, moving them to subtly emulate the words as her memories of the music began to take over.

"O light of hope enduring, ever in our hearts reside. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

She switched the gestures so that the movements she made with her right hand were now made with her left and vice versa. It was something her mother had always done, and something which she had always copied – even though she didn't often realise it.

The music continued, and so did she; this time moving forwards as the rhythm dictated, certain in the music and confident in her voice.

"All as one in every nation, by our bearing will be found; Peace the true and humble treasure through compassion will be found."

She stopped at the front, her gestures stronger in keeping with the music.

"O light of clearest vision, no illusion shall divide. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

She drew her hands across her face as she sang of the illusion – the words holding more conviction the second time around, as she thought of the possible illusion she had been allowing herself to fall under.

"O light of clearest vision, no illusion shall divide. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

She stepped backwards unconsciously, guided by the extended bridge that again resembled a swelling fanfare. She nervously chewed on her lower lip a little. The final stanza required the use of a chorus – and there were only two voices present. She moved forward again as her cue rapidly approached.

"Side by side though oceans part us, one by one it's understood; day by day the dawn is breaking on the bond of brotherhood."

They didn't need more than two voices. His was enough to outshine any choir, and he harmonised with her and the piano perfectly. She did not need a choir backing her; she had . . . an angel?

"O light of pure intention, all dissension cast aside. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

The song spoke of brotherhood, of unity, of devotion; and of love that was pure and true. And as the music quietened, awaiting her solo once more; she had a choice to make: was she to question this 'angel' who raised so many doubts in her mind, or was she to sing with her angel?

"O light of pure intention, all dissension cast aside." She sang with renewed fervour, the music casting aside any doubts with her voice. Then together they sang, together their voices carried the music beyond imagination, guided by the hands of an angel.

"Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

They held the last note as the music concluded; hers richer, higher and stronger than she had thought she would manage. Her head sank as the piano ceased. They both waited until the music had died away, neither wanting to disturb the silence and risk detracting from the magic that had been woven.

"Christine." Came the whisper. He had not called her by name since their first meeting. Now, it was spoken with such . . . reverence. Had she pleased him that much? It warmed her heart and returned the smile that had brightened her face during the third verse.

He seemed to recover himself.

"A good effort, child. You know the music well, but it was not without errors. We have much to do."

She smiled softly to herself. She had caught him off guard. Ordinarily, he would stop whenever she made a mistake. Clearly she had affected him if there had been errors, yet they'd managed to make it all the way through without pausing. She tried to calm down the pride that was swelling within her; it was his playing and teaching that had done most of the work after all. But it still felt good.

They finished the song that lesson. There had been many errors, but she knew the piece inside out and as such, had corrected them quickly. Being one of her mother's songs, she did not sing it without some pain, but it was much easier to summon up the emotions to sing it as it was meant to be performed. She had inherited both her parents' musical preferences. Ode II Joy was one that managed to stir her no matter what; just as it had for her mother.

As she gathered up her rose and made her way out, having been dismissed, she could have sworn she heard an all too familiar voice whisper 'thank you'. Whether she imagined it or not, she left the building with a smile on her face.

* * *

She lay in bed surrounded by darkness. Though it still bothered her, her fears had been lessened. Whenever she found herself in the dark now, she thought of the angel and she would calm. This night, she had much to think about.

She had been over her earlier doubts more times than she would like to admit to. But new ones had been raised that were not just figments of her imagination. If the angel claimed to know her father, he could not help but know her mother. And surely he should not have needed to be told why she knew that piece. And he certainly would not have doubted her – she had not imagined that inflection in his voice.

If he truly was an angel, why had she caught him off guard? If he knew both Music and her so well, why was he surprised by her performance? Why did he cling to the darkness if he belonged in heavenly realms filled with light? Why did he display reverence towards a mere mortal; why impatience, anger frustration?

Why was he so . . . human?

Surely no human could possess such a voice, or play with such skill. She had heard some of the greatest musicians in the world; and even were he to have a bad day, she felt certain the Angel could still outshine them. Surely no human could weave music so perfectly that it filled your soul and consumed your senses.

His skills and abilities were without question.

The same could not be said of his 'divinity'.

She lay there in the blackness considering all this. She recognised that she wanted it to be true so badly, it would be easy enough to deceive her. But the things he had said in their first conversation! There were things he had spoken of that no one could have known without knowing her . . . or without having watched her.

Was the 'Angel' the Ghost?

She lived in his house, attended the Ravelle which he haunted; and the stories she had been told did indicate a tremendous passion towards music in him. It would explain how he was able to watch over her. She had heard the stories circulating about him – the new students were eager to learn of the resident 'novelty'. The few rare sightings of him that didn't make him sound fresh out of a cheap horror film depicted him as being . . . a man.

Was the 'Angel' a man?

If the Angel was, in fact, a man; then he was exceptionally gifted. If the Angel was a man, then that would explain the gaps in his knowledge, the emotions he displayed on occasion. If this 'angel' was a man, then he was not the true Angel of Music. And he had lied to her.

Another thought struck her.

Had the true Angel of Music been teaching her, then it would only have been as part of a temporary arrangement. The Angel of Music only ever _visited_ the ones he chose. Had it been the true Angel, then he would be leaving once she was ready. If her mysterious tutor was the Ghost, or a man; it was not a visit. She might not lose her new guide and guardian once her voice had been trained again. She might not have to suffer the pain of loss so horrifically all over again.

If her tutor was deceiving her, then perhaps her father's promise had been kept after all. True, he had not sent the Angel of Music in his stead. But that didn't matter so much.

He had sent _her_ angel.

* * *

He made his way back to his lair, still in something of a daze. She had known it! More than that she had performed it exactly the way _she_ had. Thanks to his teaching, she had even managed to exceed Katie.

And he would not have believed anyone capable of that.

Oh, Christine.

He closed his eyes, drowning in the memories of the music: both his earliest ones, which brought tears of pain to his eyes; and his newest ones, which let them fall as tears of joy. She truly was the angel, not he. But he could not allow her to return to Heaven when she brought so much light to his hell.

He looked at the score that rested on his organ. He had made much progress; drawing on all the music he had created over the years, and on the music that had been inspired within him of late. He was pouring everything about him into it. It would be the embodiment of his life's work, his greatest achievement.

His gift for Christine.

He looked towards one of the natural alcoves created by the caverns; it was the one where he usually wrote his notes and built his miniatures of the Ravelle to help keep an eye on the progress of their productions. He looked at what he had stored there. He had seen it hidden away in a corner of the costume department. The first thought that had come to mind was Christine as she had stood in the graveyard. He remembered the dress that she had worn and had seized it on a whim.

The white silk would look perfect on her after all.

In the moments when he rested from music and haunting the place, he had spent his time drawing her: both as he had seen her and how he imagined her, in the greatest roles of opera that she would play. He began a new one now.

He knew what the silk would become.

In time, he would find a way to tell her that he was not the Angel she had wished for. By then, she would be as much under his spell as he was under hers. Then she would truly return to Music.

Then she would truly belong to him.


	31. Chapter 30

**Author's Note: Here's one of two chapters. I did promise a double update, and the next one will follow very soon. This should keep you going in the meantime. I think it might answer a few questions that have been raised - or at least begin to satisfy some curiosity. But please don't hate me for the ending. You'll understand what I mean by that when you've read it.**

**Thanks again to steelelf, CarolROI, Soignante, Busanda, Squealing Lit. Fan, Lady Winifred, Spectralprincess, WindPhoenix, mildetryth and Rose of Night for their latest reviews. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 30

It was halfway through the term. The class had learnt _Siúil a Ruin_ along with a few other things in order to 'broaden their horizons' and 'enhance their awareness of music'. Carlotta had managed to re-establish herself as the resident diva, since Christine chose to remain in the background – because of which, no one was aware of the progress that she had been making, and most had been inclined to forget the shy little blonde, in spite of her impromptu performance.

Except for Professor Gardiner.

Christine once again found herself in his office after class had ended for the day.

"Well, Miss Day. I did say I would hold off any review of yours for three months, but in light of circumstances both recent and current, I'm afraid I find myself having to break that promise. I hope you'll forgive me."

"It's fine. It'll be nice not to have to worry about it anymore."

"Quite. Well, to begin: your participation in class is, frankly, not what I would hope for in one of my students. I am willing to accept that perhaps this is as a result of all that has happened to you; but you must understand that this is Vocal _Performance_, and your attitude is simply not that of a performer."

"I know. I am still trying to find my feet, as it were. I thought I'd been doing enough, but I'll try to do more."

"Very well. From what I have managed to hear of you, your voice does appear to be making good progress. Am I to take it that your doctors are satisfied with your recovery?"

"Yes. I had exercises to help restore my voice, and a friend of the family has been giving me lessons as well." She replied, anticipating the next question.

"A friend of the family? This friend has sufficient musical training to give a Ravelle student lessons?"

She smiled, wondering what he would say if he knew her suspicions about her tutor.

"Yes."

"Well, aside from the performance aspect – which I expect to see significant improvement in – your work has been of a high standard, and I am satisfied with your progress."

"Thank you, Professor." Christine breathed out on a sigh of relief.

A review could make or break a student's prospects at Ravelle. If a staff member were to give a poor one, the student would come under very strict scrutiny, and remain so until a second review. If a student received two poor reviews, they would have to re-sit the term's work, and that of the previous term – no matter where they were up to in the calendar. Three poor reviews and the doors of the Ravelle would be closed on them for good. Standards were indeed high, and actually getting into the Institute was only the beginning. Hence, Christine's worry.

"There is something else I would like to speak with you about, if I may detain you a few moments more."

"Yes, Professor?"

"First of all: allow me to thank you again for your work with the students whilst we were working on _Siúil a Ruin_. I understand that it wasn't the easiest of tasks, but you managed well. Now, I don't know if you have noticed any common traits in the material we have been studying."

"Some of the songs we've been looking at are from _Hannibal _by Chalumeau; and several of the topics we've studied complement the opera."

"Well spotted. I have been coordinating with the other departments and we are planning to perform Hannibal at the end of this semester. Now, before then we have the obligatory Christmas Concert to get through. I was planning to use the concert as an aid to filling the roles. You understand?"

"Yes."

"When you sang _Siúil a Ruin_, I was reminded very much of something that we discussed briefly during one of our earlier . . . 'conversations'. You sang it as though you truly were Irish, and – if I may say so – you do bare a striking resemblance to Katie O'Neill. I believe you've heard of her."

"You could say that." Christine replied, trying not to scoff too much. It appeared to go unnoticed by the Professor, who was now in his element.

"I was wondering if perhaps you'd consider performing the finale; sort of a tribute to the great lady. You see, I was – well, still am – a great fan of hers, and I do not believe we would be slighting her memory if you were to sing in honour of her. At risk of being struck down, your talent is not dissimilar to hers."

"The finale?"

"Yes."

"And you want me to . . . impersonate Katie O'Neill?"

"Yes. I would work with you, of course. And were you to do it convincingly, it would be a worthy finale indeed."

"Thank you for the honour, Professor Gardiner, but I must decline."

"You do understand that there is not a person in the entire Ravelle who would not love to be in your current position, Miss Day."

"I understand, Sir; but you must understand that I cannot impersonate Katie O'Neill."

"Why ever not?"

"Something my mother instilled in me from a very young age was that I should never try to be someone else; that I should use my own talents for what they really are. Katie O'Neill believed the same thing. That's why she stayed true to the music, no matter what the managers told her. I guess that's why she had a reputation for being difficult, and for being a true artist."

"Very well, Miss Day. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed, but I can't fault your argument. Perform well in class, and we'll see if we can't find something else for you to do in the finale."

"Thank you, Professor." She said, smiling this time.

* * *

She had turned down the finale. The Ravelle Christmas Concerts were not amateur school productions, designed to flaunt the pupils as opposed to the talent; they were actually worthy of being called Concerts. They closed the year triumphantly and whetted the appetites of both audience and critics alike for the shows at the end of each semester.

And she had turned down the finale.

Gardiner would no doubt try to curry his favour, since it looked like the Ghost wouldn't be having his request met. He had played on the teacher's earlier conversation with Christine to have the demand make any sense; to test Christine and see if she would take the opportunity or remain true to music. She had passed: she had turned the professor down.

More to the point she had turned down the finale just the way Katie would have. Who was her mother?

Wait. It couldn't be . . . Those were the words _she_ had used, and now that he thought about it, she was around the right age. It would certainly explain the resemblance; the way she knew the songs, sang them the way she did, even moved the same way.

Was it possible?

She had taken a different surname, so that she would not be accredited for her father's sake. She had only given her mother's married name when asked; possibly for similar reasons.

Was it possible?

If Christine Daaë was indeed the daughter of Katie O'Neill, then by her mother's own words, she was his.

Now all he had to do was find out for certain.

* * *

"Well, class, today is the day you have all no doubt been waiting for with bated breath. Today I shall reveal the contents of the show which will conclude your first semester here; the show which will demonstrate your talents and the progress you have all made since entering these hallowed walls; the show which you will spend every waking moment of the next few short months studying and perfecting if you have any desire not to make fools of both yourselves and more importantly, the Ravelle."

There was not a face in the class that didn't look at least worried by the prospect – no matter how excited they had been moments before.

"But first, I believe our theatre managers would like a word with you." He gestured towards two gentlemen who looked as different as chalk and cheese – except for the fact that they couldn't stop smiling – and a third who looked like he probably still ought to be in school along with the rest of them.

"Good morning class. Welcome to the Ravelle, although I'm sure you'll have all settled in by now. I am Richard Firmin, and together with my colleague Michael Andre, may I say that we are all looking forward to getting the latest production under way." Introduced the taller and more slender – relatively speaking – of the two older gentlemen.

"And if I may be permitted, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Raoul de Chagny, whose family are planning to become our latest patrons for this production." continued the shorter and more rotund manager.

All eyes focused on the younger man. The class applauded politely. Some of the girls began staring flirtatiously. And Christine's mouth opened in astonishment.

Raoul?

He had been her closest friend aside from Meg when she was a child. He had listened to her father's stories and been as captivated as she. He had understood the magic of their world and shared in it. She had spent many a night of her youth dreaming of marrying Raoul – the way that little girls do when they find their Prince Charming.

Raoul looked around the circle, nodding politely.

"Thank you. My family is very keen to support the arts, and where better to do that than the Ravelle Institute. We hope to see and contribute to the greatness we have heard so much about. Thank you." With which, he left.

Christine followed him out of the door with her eyes. He had looked right at her; and carried on without even blinking. Had she changed that much? Had he?

Had she really lost the part of her life that had been filled with her father? She had sung his requiem as he had asked; she had tried to begin moving on, and had thought she was succeeding – with a little help from a certain tutor. Was she wrong?

Had she truly lost him?


	32. Chapter 31

**Author's Note: Second chapter of the day as promised. I did want to post this with the last one anyway, so I'm glad you made me double post. Hope you like it, I think it might satisfy a few strains of curiosity - although it'll no doubt raise a few others! Thanks again, and Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 31

"Christine!"

Her head snapped up. That was only the second time he had addressed her by name since their lessons had begun – but this time it had been in anger.

"Perhaps you should return, since your attention is clearly not here where it belongs."

"Forgive me, Angel. I did not realise I had been so distracted." She could not keep the tremor out of her voice. Perhaps it was fortunate for her, for it softened him quicker than he would have liked to admit.

"Your devotion to music is clear. Then what is it that has managed to distract you so? Is it the idea of the production?"

After the managers had left, Professor Gardiner had announced _Hannibal_ as the opera they would be working on. Christine hadn't been surprised, he had warned her after all. Then the scores had been handed out. She had seen opera scores before, but given the time constraints that had been set, the workload that loomed was phenomenal – especially for first-years.

"No. I am excited about that. I'll probably only be nervous once dress rehearsals start."

"If you are concerned about the part you will be assigned, don't be. Gardiner cannot be fool enough to deny you the lead."

"But Carlotta-"

"Has the voice of the toad she once attributed so unjustly to you. Do not worry, child. I said I would look after you, did I not?"

"Yes, Angel."

"What is it that troubles you, then?" He prodded, seeing that whatever it was, he had not managed to alleviate it.

"You assured me of your dedication to your lessons. You cannot keep that promise if you are distracted. Tell me." He continued gently as she stood there chewing her lip nervously, uncertain of how to begin.

"A friend of mine came to the school today." Silence. Usually a hint for her to continue. "He was one of my closest friends as a child. Almost as dear to me as Meg."

"He?"

"Yes. Raoul de Chagny. We used to spend our summers together whenever we could. We shared everything with each other, and with my father. He was one of the few people who understood the world we had created for ourselves. I suppose you could say he was my childhood sweetheart. But he didn't recognise me today."

"If he failed to remember you, then he is obviously not worthy of being remembered."

"Angel?" Never had she heard such bitterness in that heavenly voice.

"It is fortunate anyway."

"How could it possibly be fortunate?" She asked, incredulous.

"Unless you are faithful to Music, you cannot expect Music to be faithful to you. Were the boy to remember you, he would no doubt attempt to renew your . . . acquaintance. That would be a distraction you could ill afford."

"Meg Giry has not proved to be a distraction. What are you really saying?"

"Yours was not meant to be an ordinary life, my dear. If you wish it to be so, you cannot have both that and music. Christine, if your heart is on earth, then I will be forced to return to Heaven."

"I belong to Music, Angel. I will not abandon it again."

"Then let us continue." The voice was lighter now, one might say happy even. And Christine was confused and desolate once again.

* * *

He was jealous!

She had been mulling over their conversation since she had left the theatre. He had basically handed the lead role in _Hannibal_ to her on a silver platter, which was somewhat daunting. How would he manage that? And he had known of her first vocal argument with Carlotta. She was becoming more and more convinced that it was the Ghost who had been watching her after all.

He had counted it fortunate that her closest friend, one of her last and probably more positive links to her father could be gone? That she had potentially lost someone else who was dear to her all over again? Then he had spoken of her heart. She had called Raoul her childhood sweetheart, but it had been so long; the chances of there being something there again were not definite. Yet he had spoken as though it were a certainty. And he had spoken with such sadness when he had mentioned leaving – such a _human_ sadness.

He was jealous!

He had to be a man. No angel could be jealous, surely. But then, did that mean . . .? Did he . . .? She could not think about that until she knew who he was. She couldn't. There was too much else to worry about. Although it would certainly answer some questions about a certain rose collection she had been gathering.

Stop it, Christine!

She had appeased him. No matter who he was; no matter the deception he insisted on, he was still her angel. He was the only one who had fulfilled her father's promise. He was the only one who had given her music . . . which meant . . .

He was the one who had begun restoring her heart.

* * *

A childhood sweetheart?

She had been downcast all day, which had grieved him. He had thought it owing to the pressures of the forthcoming production. She had yet to perform properly since her voice had returned. But, no! She was hurt because a former love had not remembered her. He had better not remember her. Were they to reconcile, the boy would woo her away with his looks and charming words. He could not appreciate the talent that lay within her, the soul she had for music.

Christine was his!

She had said so herself. She belonged to music. She had pledged herself to him.

And he would not lose her to a mere _boy_! Perhaps it was time for the Ravelle to remember that it was the Ghost who ruled them and not some patron. They would remember him, they would fear him, and they would follow his instructions and meet his demands.

And as for Christine: she would remain his.


	33. Chapter 32

**Author's Note: Apologies for the lack of posting yesterday. When I managed to get on the web, was on a bit of a go slow. I couldn't even reply to reviews! So to make up for that, here's the double posting for yesterday, and I'll try and get today's chapter up as well. So that's three for you! Plus, we're getting close to another double update, so if you play your cards right you might get four chapters today.**

**Thanks again to Rose of Night, Squealing Lit. Fan, Soignante, Jezebel21, Busanda (double thanks), Lady Winifred, mildetryth, TalithaJ, Spectralprincess, Shayril and Jedi Bubbles (funky screen name) for their latest reviews. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 32

Raoul had been sitting in on at least one class a week since his presence had first been announced. They were usually the non-performance classes – apparently the other aspects of theatre were not his forte. He usually attracted the majority of the attention until class was called to order; the guys were curious, the girls were smitten.

And Christine remained forgotten.

Every time she saw him, he evoked memories of a childhood that had been lost – that she was still trying to cling on to. Every time she saw him and he failed to acknowledge her, it cut a little more deeply. Every day that she saw him, her angel had to win her attention back to music during their lessons.

Suffice to say that neither of them was happy with the present situation.

Christine found herself in one of the many supplementary classes that had been arranged in lieu of the upcoming production – there'd be even more once preparations began in earnest for the Christmas Concert. Instead of concentrating solely on the material during their ordinary classes, the school continued with the usual syllabus – adapting it where it was possible for _Hannibal_ – and arranged the extra classes as well. When she had thought the workload phenomenal, she hadn't been wrong – she'd just underestimated how accurate she really was.

They were in one of the supplementary classes for Vocal Performance. They worked on the chorus parts during class; had separate classes for the different vocal ranges to cover the relevant material, and during these extra sessions, they would look over the more technical aspects: analysing the orchestration, looking at the intricacies of the plots, the characters, discussing background etc. All in all, no student at the Ravelle could be forgiven for not knowing everything – that their specialism dictated – about the latest production.

This particular class was spent analysing the orchestration and was being led by Professor Gardiner – seeing as it was being attended by the Vocal Performance Level 3 – with Paul Reyer, the Institute's house conductor supervising. They had each been given a few sample pages from the full score – as opposed to the version adapted for vocalists – and had so far looked at the moods created, the use of the instruments and discussed why Chalumeau had chosen to do things the way he had, as opposed to other alternatives utilised by his contemporaries.

"Why doesn't the score have notation for the full orchestra? I thought we were doing a full scale production." Asked Carlotta, rather haughtily – no doubt resenting the possibility that her first chance at the limelight wouldn't be 'worthy'.

"Well spotted, Miss Guidacelli. Can anyone answer?" Professor Gardiner looked around the circle expectantly. No one answered.

"The opera was written when several elements of the modern orchestra had either not been invented or hadn't become mainstream. Chalumeau didn't want to risk unfamiliar terrain with new instruments, which he made up for by writing such a lavish production." Christine volunteered. Raoul looked her way out of curiosity, and then returned his attention to Professor Gardiner.

"Very good, Miss Day."

"Has the production not been adapted for a full orchestra? Surely it would be more effective that way." Impressive was the implication that went unspoken in the air.

"It has indeed undergone such adaptation, Miss Guidacelli," the mention of her name scored a brief glance of admiration from Raoul, which she received smugly, "and you have raised an interesting question: which is better; to adapt period music to a modern orchestra, or stick with contemporary instruments?"

"A modern orchestra, surely. There are more instruments to create a better sound. The composers didn't write for them because they didn't have them. If they had, they could have made their music even better." Carlotta promptly replied.

"But surely they made do with what they had, which is why we can still call their work genius." Replied Raoul, to the surprise of many.

"'Made do', which is exactly my point. 'Made do' implies an inferior quality. Imagine what Mozart could have done with a full orchestra at his disposal."

"What do you say to that, Mr. de Chagny?" asked Gardiner at the boy's silence, keen to continue the little debate.

"I'm trying to remember something I once heard a violinist say on the subject." Christine's head snapped up. Did he remember after all?

"Which violinist?"

"Daaë, Charles Daaë. It was something like: 'Not all the music works with all the instruments, it depends on what the writer was going for', or words to that effect." Some members of the class giggled a little.

"The composers of the past did not have all the instruments we have today, so the music they would have heard and created did not include all the sounds we know today. No doubt they could have done wonders improvements had they had the range of instruments we do, but they wrote in ignorance of them. Not all the music of the past is meant for such things and would be considered excessive if adapted; whilst other pieces cry out for it. It depends on the music." Christine answered softly. Raoul looked at her in astonishment.

"Who is Daaë? I've never heard of him." Carlotta asked, annoyed that the mute had stolen her spotlight once again.

"A very talented violinist. He died a while ago though. I do believe that was Daaë's philosophy. He focussed on the idea that you should listen to what the music told you, and play or adapt it accordingly." Gardiner replied, to which the class actually laughed. Christine began fuming. She could accept that people hadn't heard of her father, but she refused to accept people laughing at him, even when he was still with her.

"Well if he had such an old fashioned view and believed silly ideas like that, perhaps it's a good thing we won't be hearing any more of them." Carlotta replied amidst the giggles, certain in the support of the class and that the argument of a nobody couldn't rival hers.

The crack silenced the class.

They looked to see Carlotta lying on the floor, near to where she had been stood moments before. They say the handprint quickly reddening on her cheek. And they saw Christine standing over her seething. Nobody spoke. Nobody breathed. No one had seen it coming.

"How dare you!" She said fiercely in a low voice that would have made even the ghost proud.

"You . . . you hit me? You hit me!" The red-head said in realisation, springing up ready to attack her rival. She was held back however, as Christine stood there firmly.

"Miss Day, apologise this instant!" ordered Gardiner, having recovered his wits.

"No." She said evenly, still glaring at Carlotta.

"When I said I wanted to see more participation out you, this is most certainly not what I meant. Now, apologise immediately or you can remove yourself from my classroom until you've learnt to behave properly."

"Properly?" she asked, incredulous. She turned to face the Professor. "I am here because my father wanted me to be and because I believe in music and that this was a worthy institution for it. If dancing on my father's grave is part of the syllabus, and I have to apologise to that _thing_ for defending him, then I don't believe I care to be here anymore." She said in a low voice with barely veiled rage in it, before gathering up her things and heading towards the door.

"Stop! Miss Day, what in the blazes are you talking about?" asked Gardiner, curious, and slightly worried. She stopped before the door, and with her back to the class replied, fighting back tears.

"Daaë. My name is Christine Daaë. I registered over the phone and somebody misspelled it. I didn't correct it because I wanted to earn my place rather than have it for the sake of my father's reputation." She faced the class. "My father died last summer trying to save my life. To have someone say that it's a good thing he's gone is not only like dancing on his grave: it's saying that he was a fool to pay the price he did; that he was a fool to love me that much; that he made a mistake and that I should have been the one to die." She said all of this looking Carlotta in the eye. Carlotta had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. She turned her attention back to Professor Gardiner. "I will not apologise for defending my father. If that costs me my place here, so be it. But I don't regret my actions, and only a fool would try and make me."

This time she did walk out of the door, leaving a stunned crowd in her wake. They all began talking amongst themselves, with the exception of a certain patron who had been watching with undisguised astonishment. He made his way over to the door and then ran after her.

"Christine!" He called, upon spying her retreating form. She stopped, carefully wiping away the few tears that she hadn't managed to keep back. He came around in front of her.

"Christine? Is it really you?"

"I thought you'd forgotten."

"I didn't recognise you, you've changed so much. My Little Lotte's all grown up." He said with a bit of a smile. She looked at him, trying to work him out.

"Christine, I'm so sorry about your father. I wish I'd known."

"Why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I what?" he asked, confused.

"Why didn't you know? You said you'd keep in touch.

"I know, and I tried." _If he failed to remember you, then he is obviously not worthy of being remembered._ The words of her angel came back to her.

"How hard was it? When he . . . it was in the news for at least a week. How hard did you try?"

"Christine, please."

"No, Raoul. I have to go." She said trying to move past him. He grabbed her right arm.

"Go? But I've only just found you again. Can't we at least catch up?" She kept her back to him, so he didn't see the pain he was causing.

"You 'found' me quite a while ago, Raoul. You've been in enough of my classes. If you really had tried to keep in touch, you wouldn't have had any trouble recognising me. I have to go, I have a voice lesson."

"Can I come?"

"It's a private lesson. My teacher is very strict. I have to go."

He let her go, wondering just what had happened to his former playmate. She walked on until he was out of sight, and then ran. She didn't care who saw her, or what they thought. She didn't care that her old friend had finally recognised her and she'd just blown him off. She didn't care what time of day it was, she just ran straight to the main theatre and prayed that he knew she was coming and had opened the door.

The door was open.

She ran inside and for once welcomed the darkness, because it meant he had to be here. She made her way as quietly as she could to the stage, thankfully finding that the blackness extended throughout.

"You are early, child." Came the voice she had been longing to hear. She closed her eyes, savouring it. "What is it?" he asked at her lack of response.

"Forgive me, Angel. I just . . . I needed to hear your voice. I . . . forgive me. I just needed you." She said; collapsing on the stage in bitter, uncontrollable sobs as she finally let the anger and grief wash over her.


	34. Chapter 33

**Author's Note: Double update as promised. Hope it isn't too repetitive, but I thought you wouldn't mind it so much because of the narrator. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 33

She needed him!

No woman had ever said that to him. No person had ever said it, actually.

He had been watching her class again. It was amazing he actually found time for music and his other latest hobbies with the amount of attention he focussed on her. Still, if being in her presence so much – whether she knew about it or not – was the price he had to pay for being an angel, then he would bear it as best he could.

He had noted that the boy was there again. And that he had ignored her. Again. How anyone, especially a man, could ignore her was something he did not understand. He was glad of it though, because it meant he did not have a rival. And yet he did, for each day that she was ignored, Christine became more downhearted, until he brought her back to music. At least he knew he could comfort her, and that she welcomed him that way. It was something.

He watched with pride as she had answered Carlotta's question about the orchestra. How was it that a girl ignorant of everything except her own 'talent' had ever gotten into the Ravelle? It's not as if her mother was anything special – at least not outside of a zoo. The answer was not something he had taught her, but he took pride in it all the same; for he had nurtured her love of music back to health, which must have contributed to it.

When the boy had joined in, he had seen her head snap to attention as a violinist was mentioned. Had he finally deigned to remember her after all this time? When Christine answered, he found his admiration for her father increasing. Had she decided to acknowledge who she really was?

When he heard Carlotta's remark, he had been reaching for the sandbag poised directly above her head when she was knocked to the ground. Christine had struck her! He had not thought her capable, but he was pleasantly surprised by the revelation. Were it not for the fact he had yet to manifest himself beyond notes and his usual hints, he would have thought she was paying homage to him with the voice she then used. She really was his protégé.

Curse Gardiner! He was actually defending the harpy? If he let Christine walk out of Ravelle, there wouldn't be Hell to pay: they'd have him to deal with.

He listened as she explained herself, wanting to weep as he heard the pain with which she spoke. No wonder she had lashed out in such anger. He had not heard her voice so thick with grief since her conversation with Little Giry about the Angel of Music, and other things. He would deal with Miss Guidacelli and the other fools later. He made his way over the rigging and into the tunnels, knowing the path she usually took and hoping to find her. He did.

She was with the boy.

He looked as though he was trying to cheer her up, and was failing miserably. So she had considered his words. Could it be he had a greater hold over her than the one whose friendship she had so cherished?

He could have leapt for joy when she said she had a voice lesson. She was going to him! In her time of anguish, she was reaching out to _him_. Not that ignorant boy.

The boy who grabbed her arm. She flinched. He had hurt her, and still he persisted.

He had not felt such rage towards anyone in a very, _very_ long time. And the last time had resulted in a visit to a cemetery. The boy _dared_ to ignore HIS Christine, then vex her and presume to share in her music. If those insults weren't bad enough, he even touched her and hurt her!

Someone else to deal with later. Christine didn't even look at him again as she made her way over to the theatre. That she ran was of little matter. His tunnels were a more effective short cut, and he managed to have the door open in plenty of time for her. He waited for her to appear on stage. When she did, he did not wait for her to address him.

She needed him!

She needed him. And he was confined to this wretched deceit. As he watched her convulsing with anger, her sobs wracking her body much the way they had during her earlier coughing fit, he longed to reach out and hold her. He knew she needed as much, and he could not give it.

There had to be a way to end this charade. To end it, so that he could still keep her. The current situation just wasn't enough – for either of them.

Words would not comfort her, and he neither knew nor had time for platitudes. He comforted her in the only way he could. He gave her music. He opened his mouth and allowed a wordless melody to pour out.

He sang to her without accompaniment, for there was none that she had responded to so well as his own voice. He poured into his song every comfort that he wished he could give, every understanding that he had of loss, of hurt and solitude.

He sang from his heart, and it was what was stored there that eventually calmed her. She knew what that kind of music sounded like, and it was what she needed. She didn't care who her angel was, only that he was hers.

Eventually, she stopped sobbing, her breathing evened out and she stilled. Only when he was satisfied that this was the end did he allow his music to cease. He was shocked when the figure in black stepped out of the shadows. He watched as it moved over to his Christine and kneel down.

"She is sleeping. You can come out now."

Madame Giry knew when he had disappeared from his box and quickly fixed Christine's make-up. Whatever had been happening between the two, she was fairly certain that her daughter's face had never been revealed.

"I heard about what happened." She said quietly when she felt the other shadow near her. "I did not expect her to come here though. You have been teaching her?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"A few weeks. She sheltered here from the rain one night."

"I had wondered."

"You do not object." He said, surprised. It was not a question. Had there been objections, he would not have been able to get a word in. The ballet mistress leaned on her cane as she stood.

"She is happy. I have not been able to say that for months. She has music in her life again, and you are the one who has given it to her. Why would I object?" He did not answer. She became worried. "How are you managing to give her lessons?"

"She believes that I am the Angel of Music." He knew it was pointless to lie to her. Her hand flew to her mouth.

"How could you know of that?"

"I heard her telling your daughter of him. It is the only way I could give her lessons without frightening her. Do you have any idea what her voice could be, Antoinette? Were she to give herself over to the teachers here, she would be good, yes; but with my help she could achieve a greatness the likes of which we have never seen."

Christine stirred a little. He jumped back into the shadows out of habit. Antoinette checked her.

"She is still sleeping soundly. How long was she crying like that?"

"About an hour. I'm not certain." He replied; stepping back into what light there was.

"Then she will not be waking by herself any time soon. She should be taken back to the house." She replied, looking at him meaningfully.

Was he actually getting his wish? Slowly, he reached down and carefully took her in his arms before lifting her. He held her as though she was made of glass. It wasn't far off, for he would have done nothing to risk waking her at this point; he was content simply to hold her. He had not been allowed to the last time he and Antoinette had found her lying on the floor. She had insisted on calling Meg and the doctor, otherwise there would have been too many questions. This time though, there was no place for that. Here she was in his arms, her head cradled against his shoulder.

"No one has seen her coming here?" Madame Giry asked, reaching for her daughter's bag.

"Not for our lessons. I do not know if she was seen today." He replied, staring down at Christine, drinking in the sight of her.

"Then we must find another way. I think Buquet might have seen her." His head snapped up. Buquet was far too curious and vocal about him as it was. If he could connect Christine to him, she would not get any peace. And Buquet was the sort of person he would not trust with any girl, least of all his Christine.

"Come." Giry knew of this tunnel anyway, even though this would be the first time she would actually see inside it.

The torches were blazing, thankfully, as they entered. Even so, the air inside was noticeably cooler than in the theatre, and it had been a relatively warm day. Christine shifted in his arms so that she was curled up even closer to him, her hand wrapping itself in the front of his jacket. Had she woken up, she would found his heart in her hand – in more ways than one. It was all he could do to keep one foot moving in front of the other. He didn't want this to end. He was overwhelmed with the scent of roses and something else that he could only describe as Christine. He had a feeling it would stay with him, even when the scent had ceased to linger.

All too soon, he found himself facing the door underneath the stairs. He allowed Madame Giry to pass before him and open it. Though she didn't know the tunnel, she knew that much at least. She led him up to Christine's bedroom where he gently – and even more slowly – laid her on the bed. Antoinette had drawn back the covers, but without thought, he was the one who drew them over the sleeping girl. She shifted a little, unconsciously making herself comfortable. He softly pushed a strand of hair back from her face.

"Angel." She breathed.

His hand hovered over her face in a caress he did not dare give. Until he felt a hand on his arm. He straightened up and silently moved out of the room. Antoinette placed a kiss on Christine's forehead before leaving likewise.

She managed to catch him just before he disappeared back into the tunnel.

"She is not just a student to you, is she?" She called to his back. He did not answer.

"If you do anything to hurt her, I promise you will wish you had never met either of us." He looked down at the petite woman. She was not trying to insult him, but as a mother, there was a fierceness in her eyes that could rival his own.

"I told you I would watch over her. I promised her that I would keep her safe." They looked at each other. He knew that wasn't what she was speaking of, just as she understood the full meaning behind what he wasn't saying.

"Do not hide this from me again."

He retreated into the shadows.


	35. Chapter 34

**Author's Note: Here's today's chapter as promised. If we hit the next review quota, I'm afraid the double update will have to be tomorrow - I need sleep! Anyway, thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 34

Christine awoke to the sun creeping in through her bedroom window. It was too low in the sky for it to be time to get up. Still, she was awake now. She paused as she got out of bed. She'd fallen asleep crying on the stage. How had she gotten back here? She remembered singing – her angel had been there, comforting her. And then she had cried herself to sleep.

She remembered . . . Had Mother Giry been there? Then she was being carried. It had been cold. She had been wrapped in something warm and solid . . .

Had her angel carried her? Had he been here in her room? That would explain the unfamiliar scent that was in the air. He'd said he would look after her. So he was a man after all. Did he know Mother then? She was sure they'd both been there. Did that mean she knew? That she approved?

Christine smiled at the thought. She didn't need the true Angel of Music. She had her own.

As she made her way down the stairs, the rest of yesterday's events returned to her. She had actually slapped Carlotta! She didn't know whether to be jubilant or mortified. She'd be lucky if she got away with being suspended. But she didn't regret why she'd done it: no one insulted her family and got away with it.

She'd brushed off Raoul! All those times she'd wished he'd look her way and acknowledge her; the one time he actually did and she'd barely acknowledged him . . . Which was more than he'd managed in all this time. He hadn't kept in touch like he'd promised. Although his family was very important, and the older he got, the more pressure he'd have on him, and the family of a poor violinist might not be considered fit company- Stop it! Whatever the reason, he hadn't kept in touch. She was different now, and would have been difficult to recognise, but when he had, he'd at least tried to talk to her. He'd even remembered her pet name. Her childhood pet name.

But that part of her was gone now. So why did she still cling to it so desperately? Because otherwise it'd be like losing them all over again.

She found herself outside the door tucked away in one of the back corners of the house on the ground floor. She'd defended them. People knew whose daughter she was now – well, they knew half the story. And yet in keeping them shut behind this door, she'd brushed them away even more effectively than she had with Raoul.

_You will find the strength, child. You love your father._

It hadn't been said with a past tense. She loved him still – loved both of them still. She went to her bag that was hung in the hall and drew out her set of keys. Strange how this one room had its own key which wouldn't work anywhere else. She unlocked the door and, taking a breath to steady her nerves; she put her hand on the handle and opened it.

The boxes were piled neatly against the far wall where she had left them. There were a couple of windows, this being in the corner of the house, but the curtains were still firmly closed. She looked around the room. Other than several pieces of furniture and a wall hanging that had been covered with dust sheets, there was nothing in the room. It had remained untouched.

She began by removing the dust sheets. There was a bureau, a few chairs and a table, and a bookcase. The covering on the wall revealed a half-length gold ornate mirror – the only one she had ever found in the house. The furniture was beautiful – in need of a polish, but beautiful nevertheless. It looked like quite an old style – she couldn't guess which – and the décor complemented it beautifully. Whatever it was, she loved it, and she couldn't believe she had let it go unappreciated for so long.

Then again, it wasn't just the furniture she could say that about.

She went back to the kitchen and took out her cleaning supplies. She spent the next hour scrubbing and polishing everything in that room that wasn't a box, getting it ready. Once that was done, she put her cleaning supplies back in the hall, and reached for the first box.

She opened it and saw her mother staring back at her.

Tears welled up at the sight of the woman who she had lost when she was only six years old. She didn't have many of her own memories of her, but the ones she had, she'd fought to keep all these years. Her father had made sure she wasn't forgotten. Half the stories he'd told her had been tales of the north, or of the Angel of Music – mostly the latter; the other half had been about her mother. He'd not stopped telling her stories, even as she grew older. She still treasured each one. They gave her hope for the future and reminded her of her past, and her parents. Both of them.

She took out the programme carefully. It was from one of her earlier concerts, before she'd met Papa. She looked so radiant and beautiful. She'd belonged on that stage.

"Hi, Mama. Sorry it's been a while. I've been a bit daft lately, as you'd say. But I'm working on remedying that." Christine said softly as she found a place for the programme to rest. She took out everything that was in the boxes, laughing and crying alternately at the memories the various bits and pieces all evoked.

Eventually, she began putting things away properly. The posters, she put on the walls. The programmes, she displayed one copy of each on the table and the bookshelves. The rest were placed on a shelf, along with everything else. The photographs, she placed in a neat pile, where they would wait until they'd found their way into a photo album.

A few hours after she'd begun, she looked around the room. It was probably originally meant to be a very elegant room. Now, it rivalled Gardiner's office without much effort. The room was covered in anything and everything that had been made about Katie O'Neill and Charles Daaë. From memorabilia of shows and performances, to newspaper clippings and private photographs, it was all there. Everything that Christine had from her parents' careers, covered every available space in that room – without looking too cluttered.

Now, it felt like home. Now they were all back under the same roof.

She wiped away a stray tear again as the phone rang.

"Hello? Yes, Mother. What? They're seriously suggesting that? Alright, I'll be there in about fifteen minutes. I need to get dressed first. Yes, I'll hurry." Christine answered her side of the dialogue rather urgently. She took one last look around the room before locking the door and hurrying to get ready. It looked like today could be a bit interesting.

* * *

He had been listening for several hours, waiting for when she awoke; waiting for some indication that she was alright, that she was at least not as anxious as she had been yesterday. This girl would be the death of him, he was sure. Still, there had to be worse ways to go.

He eventually heard her footsteps descending and was instantly alert. He checked his pocket-watch: she was up at least two hours earlier than usual. Was this good or bad? Her tread was no heavier than usual. At least she could not be too despondent. She didn't head to the kitchen. Instead she made her way round to the other side of the house. Where was she going? He didn't hear her return, so he risked stepping out. He still knew enough hiding places in this house to avoid being seen, no matter where she was.

She was in the Louis-Philippe room. It was home to a few of the things he had 'acquired' as whims, things which wouldn't for one reason or another fit in his lair. The things in this room he had covered, because they were mostly reminders of times he would rather forget. And she was in there, removing the coverings! She looked around the room in admiration. He grudgingly admitted that the room did possess a certain charm if it was being viewed for the first time.

He jumped back into the shadows as she headed out again. She was not gone long, and when she did return . . . would this girl never cease to unsettle him?

She cleaned the entire room, and then she returned for those boxes that she'd discarded in there. No, not discarded. She opened them with too much care for that. The contents appeared to upset her. He soon understood why.

"Hi, Ma. Sorry it's been a while. I've been a bit daft lately, as you'd say. But I'm working on remedying that."

He had to strain to hear her words, they were said so gently. It was just the sort of thing _she_ would have said. She'd even managed the soft accent and intonation perfectly. Had he been right? She took out what looked like a programme, although he couldn't see it clearly from where he was stood.

He watched in open-mouthed astonishment as she opened box after box and filled his room with her own memories. When she was done, the room displayed signs of the path of her father's career.

And everywhere else he looked, he saw Katie.

She'd said 'Ma' as she'd looked at the programme. She was the daughter of Charles Daaë. And she was the child of Katie O'Neill.

It all made sense. The resemblance she bore, the way she knew the music and performed it the same way she had. She had written that her mother's name was Catherine Daaë. Katie had never gone by that name outside of the theatre, she had told him as much. She said that her stage name was strictly for the world of the stage, and that she had another name for everyday use. He'd never found out of course, he didn't belong to that world.

When she'd left twenty years ago, it had been the worst betrayal he had ever known. But in spite of his coldness to her when she'd told him, she'd still left him with a promise. That her child would find him, just as she had; that if she had anything to do with it, her child would save him, just as she had tried to.

By her own words, her child belonged to him.

As Christine hurried away to the Ravelle, he watched her, seeing her with new eyes.

"Thank you, Katie."


	36. Chapter 35

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 35

Antoinette sat outside the Dean's office, waiting for Christine's arrival. She could not help but wonder at the hand that had guided the events of the last few months. When she had thought of that house for Christine to live in, it was only much later that she had realised the full potential of the situation. Both of them had been all but cut off from the world, both shared a similar, if not equal passion for music. Both had been hurt tremendously in more ways than one.

Both had been in the last words to her and the dying thoughts of Catherine Daaë.

She still had the letter stored away safely: the letter asking her to try and bring the two together, even if it was only for a moment; she would do the rest.

She could not help but wonder if those words were being carried out now. He had convinced Christine that he was the Angel of Music? That could not have been easily done, no matter what her daughter believed and wanted. She had certainly been happier lately. There was still a long way to go before she would come out of her shell completely, but there had been far more improvement than she could have otherwise hoped for after such a short period of time.

And she had turned to him when she needed comfort the most.

As a mother, it had hurt that Christine had not turned straight to her; but that she had turned to him was a strong sign of the trust that had been earned. Even though Christine had probably not let him see her face; that he had been allowed to see her tears was astonishing given such a short acquaintance.

But she knew him. She knew what he could be like, and no matter what Katie had been hoping for; she couldn't help but be concerned about the two of them if something were to go wrong – which is why she had told him not to keep things from her again. She only hoped he'd heed her words.

She saw Christine through the window. Good. She doubted they would wait much longer. When she had heard what had happened, she had been horrified by her daughter's behaviour. When she had heard why it had happened; she had been shocked – but also proud. Not that she would be saying that in front of anyone else outside of the family. No one should get away with saying something like that about anyone; that Christine had been in the room at the time merely magnified the point.

"Mother?" Antoinette turned to see her second daughter slightly out of breath, as though she'd run part of the way. She never was one to stand being late. "They'll let me stay?"

"You must speak with them." She answered, taking Christine's coat before knocking on the office door and showing her in.

"Miss Daaë, we've heard from Professor Gardiner what happened, and Madame Giry has spoken on your behalf, in order to explain matters further." Christine turned briefly to her second mother, whose unapologetic look indicated that nothing had been explained which she would object to. "Now, whilst I can understand you wanting to defend your father, and whilst I do acknowledge that Miss Guidacelli's comments were highly objectionable; I cannot condone your course of action."

"I understand, Sir."

Dr Poligny, the Dean of the Ravelle was by no means considered an easy-going man. It was rare for a student to be called before him for anything positive – especially so early on in their career. Suffice to say, when Madame Giry had called Christine about this meeting, her happiness over possibly keeping her place had been short-lived compared to the nerves that set in once she'd found out who the meeting was with.

The others present were Professor Gardiner, for obvious reasons, and Mr. Debienne, head of the board of trustees. Seeing as Carlotta's mother had made some very generous contributions in recent years (one can only speculate as to why), he had decided to give the matter his particular attention.

"Now, having had the circumstances behind your . . . reaction explained a little more fully by Madame Giry, we have decided that this is a rather exceptional case and would be willing to put the matter aside, provided you apologise formally to Miss Guidacelli."

Christine just looked at him.

"Miss Daaë, you struck the girl in front of your peers without reprimand. Were your actions to go unpunished, then the Ravelle would be viewed as condoning what happened. We have a very prestigious reputation to consider, and whilst your circumstances warrant sympathy, they do not justify such outlandish behaviour. Now will you apologise to Miss Guidacelli?"

"No."

"Miss Daaë, understand that if you do not make amends for your behaviour, the Institute will have no choice but to seriously reconsider your place here." Mr. Debienne interjected.

She looked around the office. It was a large one, as befitted the Dean of such a place as the Ravelle, expensively but tastefully decorated. The walls and furniture contained various accolades, pronouncing his status and declaring his worthiness for such a position as the one he held. But there were other things in the office as well. It wasn't just the office of the Dean. It was the office of a husband and father – possibly even a grandfather.

"Are these your children, Dr. Poligny?" She asked, gesturing to what was obviously a family portrait.

"Yes; and my wife. But we are not here to discuss my family, Miss Daaë."

"No, we're discussing mine. But you don't understand my family, Dr Poligny, so no matter what you think, you can't understand or even begin to sympathise with my 'circumstances', as you called them."

"Then do enlighten us, Miss Daaë." Debienne intoned; his voice patronising and filled with condescension.

"Do you love your children, Doctor?" She continued, ignoring the board member.

"Of course."

"To what degree?"

"I don't believe I understand."

"How much do you love your children? Would you die for them if you had to?" He considered the young woman before him, uncertain as to where this was going. Being an honest man and a loving father, he could only answer one way though.

"Yes."

"What if they were to die for you?"

"Miss Daaë, this really is inappropriate." He replied, shifting uncomfortably.

"Are you so certain?"

"If they were to die for me . . . I can't imagine."

"If your entire family was to die for you: no matter how great a sign of love that action would be, you would not want to go on living. You wouldn't even look for a reason to get up each morning; you'd wish you hadn't woken up instead. You'd be lucky if you could manage to go through the motions of life out of sheer habit. You'd spend every waking moment wishing either you could be with them, or that you had been the one to die in their stead – no matter how selfish a thought that might be."

Silence.

"I don't think I can argue with that assessment, Miss Daaë."

"What if you had to watch your family – your entire family – their bodies wracked with pain, suffering every conscious moment? What if you had to sit by their side, knowing that they were experiencing pure agony for your sake? That if it weren't for you, they would be well? What if you had to sit there, knowing that they were dying? And they were dying such an awful death because of you. Because they loved you that much."

"Miss Daaë-"

"And then what if some heartless creature came along and said that it was a good thing they were gone; that the world was better off because they'd been through all that? What if someone made everything they'd been through seem that worthless?"

"I don't know." Poligny answered, the depth of her situation impacting him.

"Just tell me this: would you apologise for defending your family in that case?"

"No. In all fairness, I'd be hard-pressed to apologise for defending my family in any case." He replied, almost speechless at what he had heard – having been given the extremely toned down version by Madame Giry.

"Then why do you ask it of me?"

"Miss Daaë, are you suggesting-" Debienne began, seeing as his colleague had suddenly been struck dumb.

"I'm not suggesting anything, Sir. I'm telling you that those are the 'circumstances' I find myself in. I will not apologise for defending my father, even if it costs me my place here. If you want me to apologise for hitting Carlotta, then I will. I can accept that it was wrong of me, seeing as I acted in the heat of the moment. But I will do so only if she apologises first for the way she insulted my family and me."

The gentlemen considered this declaration, consulting with Gardiner for his take on things as well. Madame Giry came and stood behind Christine, her hand resting on her left shoulder in a sign of both support and approval.

"Miss Daaë, I am confused on one point: you said you defended your father, and yet you speak of your family in its entirety." Debienne asked – clearly the Devil's advocate of the proceedings.

"My father was my family. I'm an only child and my mother died when I was a little girl."

"And Madame Giry, your relation-"

"Christine's mother was one of my closest friends. When she married, I was a friend of her husband as well, which is why I was the natural choice to become Christine's legal guardian."

Poligny considered the two women before him once more.

"Miss Daaë, we will try and find some resolution between yourself and Miss Guidacelli. We would not want the wrong message to be put across by the Ravelle, but rest assured: given the circumstances, it would not be too much to have Miss Guidacelli offer an apology as well. Your actions cannot be seen as having gone unpunished, but we shall come to that later, once it has been decided upon. Until then, you may continue with your classes."

"Thank you, Sir."

"And let there be no more of this sort of behaviour." Debienne added as she rose to leave.

"It isn't in my power to promise that." She returned, making her way out of the office.

* * *

Once they were safely away and in the open air, Christine finally breathed properly.

"You did well, child. They will be proud." Christine looked at her second mother and gave a weak smile, since she could not form the words without her voice breaking.

"I will take you back to the house. You can gather a few things and then come home with me."

"Mother, I-"

"I know you, my dear. You will not sleep tonight, and your voice has gone through enough." Antoinette continued, silencing Christine's protests.

"Will you let me come by later tonight? I have a few things that I have to do first."

"Very well. But do not be too late. It is a school night, and Meg will no doubt keep you awake."

"Yes, Mother."

"You'd better bring enough for a few days. I don't want you in that house during Halloween." Christine stopped.

"Why not?"

"You remember what Meg told you, about who the house belongs to?"

"Yes."

"There are times during the year when some members of the Institute remember that as well. I cannot guarantee what will happen, but I do not want you in that house during Halloween. No matter what you might think, it wouldn't be safe." The two exchanged a meaningful glance. Christine had yet to speak directly to her mother about her tutor, or the 'owner' of the house. It appeared to be one of those subjects that needed no discussion, only understanding.

"Alright, Mother."

Their paths parted and Christine headed back. She looked at the house again as she reached it. Even though she had tidied it up, it still possessed a haunted air about it. It would not be hard to label it as the Ghost's house, even if one didn't know for certain.

She looked around the inside, at all the changes she had made, the improvements. Sighing, she packed away everything that was hers and put as much of it as she could in the room devoted to her parents. Everything else she squeezed into her own room – which was no easy task as there was a surprising amount that needed to be carted up those two flights of stairs.

Once she had packed everything she needed to take to the Girys, she locked the door then returned to her parents' room downstairs. She did one last check in her mind to make sure that she hadn't forgotten anything before shutting the door and locking it. Then she carefully manoeuvred the dresser that stood in the hall so that the doorway was hidden.

She hated having to hide her parents yet again, but she would not have anything happen to what she had left of them. She took up her bag and locked the house as securely as she could before heading off. But she did not go to the Girys. She still had time. And she had an appointment to keep which she wouldn't have broken for the world. She needed to be there – especially after today.

So she went to the main theatre.


	37. Chapter 36

**Author's Note: And the second half of the double update. I was planning on doing a triple update to catch up, but I'm afraid I need my sleep. Sorry this one's a bit short, but I couldn't think of a way to make it longer without being repetitive at this point in the story. I will make up for it by making the next few chapters a bit more interesting - I just needed to tidy up a few loose ends first. Thanks for bearing with me. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 36

"You are early, child. Your enthusiasm is admirable. And what is this? You packed. You were planning to stay longer than usual?" Her angel greeted her with amusement in his voice.

"I'm sorry, Angel."

"And why should you be sorry, child?"

"About being early. I didn't want to inconvenience you."

"You could never be an inconvenience, Christine." She smiled at the sound of her name spoken with such warmth by him. "But that does not tell me why you have brought luggage."

"I'm staying with the Girys for a few days. I was going to head over there after our lesson. Madame didn't want me to be too late, that's why I came early."

"Oh? You do not see enough of them during the week?" Was that a hint of jealousy? Why would he be jealous of her spending more time with women?

"Apparently I live in the house that belongs to the resident ghost, and Halloween is one of those times when he is remembered. Mother Giry did not think it would be safe for me to stay there for the next few days."

"Of course." He managed evenly, through clenched teeth.

Damn this place! How could he have forgotten the tradition? Of course: he usually stayed in his lair – unless he was tempted to live up to his reputation a little. He had not had to worry about anyone else before. That meant that for however long Giry deemed it necessary, Christine would be out from under his watch. Once again, he found himself cursing his adopted charade. Had he found a way to present himself to Christine as himself before now, he could have been the one to look after her instead . . . she could have stayed with him . . . he would not have had to share her with anyone for several days at least . . .

"Angel?" Her tentative voice broke his train of thought.

"I am still here, child. Let us begin." He had to find a way. And soon.

* * *

The girls were settled securely on the couch. In honour of Christine's first night back under the Giry roof – and ONLY the first night – Meg had persuaded her mother to allow them one tub of ice cream whilst they watched a film. The real fun would begin at the weekend when they didn't have school to worry about. It had been a struggle to get the brownies hidden away without Meg knowing; but Christine and Madame had been playing that game for years now, so they had it down pat. After double checking that her two daughters were well and truly distracted, Antoinette stepped out into the back garden.

"They had a break a few minutes ago, they won't move from there for a while. Be quick nevertheless." She said in a low voice to the shadows.

"Halloween is not until the weekend. The 'festivities' will not start before then. Why did you have her move out now?" Answered the more solid of the shadows.

"I did not want her to be caught by any early celebrations." She replied, turning to face him.

"Do not lie to me, Madame." Came the steely response, prompting indignation in the ballet mistress.

"It is the truth. You saw the meeting today?" She continued, seeing how unsatisfactory her answer was.

"Yes." Apparently he had seen much, for she had not heard him so instantly subdued before. She elaborated, her voice thickening with her narrative.

"Her father died in a fire, but not straight away. He suffered badly from burns. It was not until the third day that he finally died. Christine never left him in all that time. Since the funeral, she has suffered from nightmares. It used to be every night, until we learnt the things that triggered them off."

"Such as?" His curiosity was piqued once again as he learnt more about his pupil.

"Fire. Darkness – unexpected darkness anyway – and anything that reminds her of her father's death. Today she relived a part of what happened. She will have the nightmares again tonight. Meg cannot distract her from them that much." She answered with resignation.

"So you brought her here? Did you not think I would be able to help? I am her angel, after all." He spoke with such pride. What effect had Christine had over him?

"I do not know the influence you have over her, but unless I can be certain that it is strong enough, I must insist upon this. The only thing to be done when she has one of her nightmares is to wake her, which is no easy task. Meg and I are used to it. She has not seen you?"

"No." He replied, realising the futility of his argument and yet again regretting at least one aspect of the situation he was in.

"How bad are these nightmares?" He asked, returning to the concern that he had brought him here – even though the place was off limits unless Giry was alone.

"She will scream herself hoarse before she will wake herself. Until her voice showed signs of healing, the doctors thought the nightmares would cause her to lose it altogether."

"Why does she not wake of her own accord?"

"The nightmares are horrific because they come from her memories of what happened, but they are about her father. Part of her does not want to wake because of that."

He closed his eyes in thought.

"Find me tomorrow morning. She has a lesson in the afternoon." She heard what he would not ask. It seemed the Ghost still had pride, even when Christine was concerned.

"Very well. How will you manage the lessons now?"

"I have found a way."

He disappeared back into the shadows. Antoinette returned to the two girls who were laughing away at the film. She only wished their easy mirth could get them through the night. She wondered once more at the relationship her second daughter had struck up with the Ghost. She knew he would not conduct their lessons in the light. How had he managed to ease her troubles on the matter?

Perhaps she should have let Christine stay at the house after all. Certainly he seemed to have a gift for calming her which neither she nor Meg could boast in spite of their long acquaintance. Maybe he could have found a way to calm her without disturbing her sleep further. She wondered about what would happen, should he choose to end this latest illusion of his. If he found the right way, she did not think Christine would be too disappointed – but only IF he found the right way.

But then, he was her angel. And angels didn't take on physical forms to that extent, did they?


	38. Chapter 37

**Author's Note: Thanks to Lair Lover, steelelf, Soignante (double thanks), Spectralprincess, Busanda (double thanks), Lady Winifred, mildetryth, TalithaJ and WindPhoenix (double thanks) for their latest reviews. For those of you keeping an eye on the review counter, I should be doing a double post today, but unfortunately seems to be on a go slow. Sorry everyone. I will do at least a double post tomorrow. Promise. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 37

She stood outside the old door, filled with trepidation. Granted, this was necessary, but it was still unsettling.

"_You know that preparations are beginning for the Christmas Concert."_

"_Yes, Angel."_

"_It will be difficult for your lessons to continue as they have been, given the schedules that will be kept."_

"_Do you want to stop the lessons?" Christine asked; her voice filled with disappointment._

"_No. Do not think that, child. Your progress is good, but there is still much left for me to teach you." Replied the voice somewhat urgently. "Once the concert is out of the way, _Hannibal_ will take its place, and then the summer gala. I had anticipated this, and have been making preparations."_

"_What preparations?"_

"_Come to the stage door at noon for your lesson tomorrow. I believe your schedule will allow for that." He said, knowing full well that she had the entire afternoon off, having spoken with Giry that morning. "You will learn then."_

She had gone to the stage door and found a piece of paper tucked just underneath it – much as she had placed her note to the Ghost. It was white, trimmed with black and simply folded over. Written in an elegant hand in black ink were a set of directions, which she had then followed. She'd taken quite a few corners, gone down several corridors, and at last found herself outside a door that looked like it hadn't been used for some time.

Except for the key attached to the handle by a very familiar black ribbon.

There hadn't been a key for the stage door. It had always been open for her. What did this mean? Was he not going to be there as much? Or was this simply the lengths they would have to go to in future?

She took the key and unlocked the door. Experience had taught her not to put any faith in the saying 'don't judge a book by its cover', but in spite of that, she was still astonished. The room was decorated in a soft rose colour which made it elegant as opposed to overly feminine – even though the room was clearly designed for a woman. The room was quite large, had an ornate dressing table and chair, a changing screen, a couch and an enormous full-length gilded mirror directly opposite the door.

The room was so out of the way that it felt like she'd stepped into another world, and were it not for the reflection in the mirror as the door opened, she would have wondered if the dingy hall outside had really been the path to bring her here.

_Shut the door, Christine_

She recognised the whisper that spoke straight into her ear. It was the same one that had brought her to the stage door that first time. She obeyed her angel. Uncertain as to exactly what the room was for – and why she was here other than that her angel had commanded as much – she leaned back against the door, unwilling to step too far into this new unknown setting, no matter how much she was tempted.

"You are nervous." The voice spoke this time, the lower volume no longer necessary.

"Yes." She whispered.

"Don't be. Do you like your dressing room?" She looked around as she answered.

"It's wonderf- _my_ dressing room?" What he said had clicked.

"You will need one for the galas, and it will serve well as a practice room in the meantime." He explained.

"But . . ."

"You object?"

"It's just that it's so lovely, I'd have thought this would be for a Prima Donna. Not me."

"You will be Prima Donna, and until then, you are more worthy of this than any other performer in the Ravelle."

"Thank you, Angel." Christine answered quietly, her eyes down. She was still overwhelmed; both by the beauty of the dressing room, and the conviction with which her angel had spoken. She did not doubt her ability to excel so long as she had his help. But that she would be Prima Donna? Surely not at so early a stage. Nevertheless she knew the tone of voice with which he had spoken: it was the one that meant any further arguments or protestations were both useless and foolhardy – the few times she had frustrated him with her mistakes or ignorance, he had been quite intimidating.

"You rejected Gardiner's offer of the Christmas finale. Whilst I don't doubt you would be able to pay a fitting tribute to Miss O'Neill, I do however entirely doubt the Ravelle's ability to avoid making it tasteless. You were wise to reject that offer. However, the opportunity should not be denied. There is a score on the table that I believe will be a suitable replacement."

She put her bag and coat down near the couch before moving over to the dressing table. She picked the music up, read the title, read it again – and promptly dropped the papers.

"What is wrong?" Her face had gone white and she had started to tremble.

"I . . . I can't."

"You can't what? Christine, sit down." He commanded, on seeing no further reaction out of her. She sat down on the chair before the dressing table, unconsciously turning it slightly so that she faced both mirrors in the room. She took in a few shuddering breaths, regaining her composure before finally answering.

"Forgive me, Angel, but I can't sing that."

"You can, child. You have the range, and I will teach it to you."

"I don't doubt you, Angel. And there is no piece of music I know better than this, but I can't sing it." Well at least her faith in him wasn't wavering, and she did not doubt her ability.

"What troubles you, child?" He asked in the gentlest of voices, which surely could have charmed even death itself.

"This was my mother's song. It was her favourite. She sang it as often as she could get away with, even if it wasn't Christmas. When my father met her, it became his favourite as well."

"And it would pain you to sing it because of this? Your devotion to your parents is admirable, but surely it would be denying their memory to reject music they held in such high esteem."

"It isn't that. Please, Angel. In all our lessons I have never asked you for anything because you have given me so much; but please, don't ask me to sing this."

He looked at her sitting before him, worn out and on the verge of tears. He despised himself for causing her this fresh pain. Giry had told him that morning that she had had to be woken six times during the night because the screaming had begun. She had woken up in terror each time and had had to be coaxed back into full consciousness because her dreams were so intense. It had taken her at least an hour to get back to sleep, and even when that had been accomplished; it was not long before she had needed to be awoken again. As if yesterday's events had not been taxing enough, she had had such a night to get through. She had been worn to shreds and he had only added to it.

"It is a pity. Were you to perform _O Holy Night_ as I know you could, you would surely make the angels weep. I will not ask it of you."

"Thank you, Angel. I am truly sorry. I would love to sing it again." She answered with tears in her eyes – whether they were of relief or disappointment, she could not say.

"I will not press you on this matter. But we must find a replacement. You will not be able to claim the finale with nothing to sing." She sat there a moment, waiting for a suggestion. None came. He was waiting for her – he didn't want to make the same mistake again. She inhaled sharply, the beginnings of a smile on her face.

"Angel? There is something that might do."

"Tell me."

"It doesn't have the same beauty as _O Holy Night_, but it does have a similar magic. The _Fantasia on Christmas Carols_ by Vaughan Williams." She ventured.

"It is a charming piece, if done properly. But it is an arrangement for a baritone and choir."

"I know. It was arranged for a soprano once though."

"Oh?"

"My father did it. It was something we'd always loved. He wanted to do it." She said in a nervous explanation.

"For you."

"Yes. He wanted to hear me sing it, but I never got the opportunity."

"Bring the music tomorrow. We shall see if this wish of his can be granted."

"Thank you, Angel. What of today?"

"There is some hoarseness in your throat and you look a little tired. I will not push you and risk straining your voice. Find the music and reacquaint yourself. Other than that, go and rest. We shall continue here tomorrow."

"Thank you, Angel." She said in no particular direction, although she saw her reflection in the mirror. She did look tired – but she looked better than when she had come in. She smiled. He really was her angel.

* * *

So Daaë had not been content with simply playing music, he had worked with it as well. He would be intrigued to see this arrangement. There were few performances he had been privy to, given by those who understood and knew Music. To see the written work of one of those people would be interesting. To see the work of Christine's father, a man who she clearly valued as a musician as well as a parent: perhaps he would find another way to reach her.

He had been truly disappointed when she'd rejected her idea, but he could not have refused her in that state. Were it not for the fact she was so guileless, he would have thought her very manipulative indeed. Still, all she needed was time.

_This was my mother's song. It was her favourite._

He could not have put it better. Katie had truly loved that song. It was not the most challenging piece of music, nor the most elegant or demanding. But she had given it a beauty that even Adolphe Adam could not have begun to imagine. And he knew Christine could do the same, if not better. He had to hear her. He knew that one day he would.

* * *

As Christine went her way, her head lost in thoughts of her tutor and the music she would bring tomorrow, she did not see the face watching her from the shadows. Had she seen the Master of the Flies lurking there, she surely would have been more careful. As it was, she went on her way, oblivious to his leer.

Now what could Giry's pet be doing in the theatre at this time of day? His mind went in numerous directions, even lighting on possibilities that included the Ghost. Why had her interest in Box 5 been so different to everyone else's? He'd remembered her. She was a pretty enough little thing, he wasn't going to forget her – especially when so much interest had been shown in her. He left the theatre a little after she had. She was headed away from the halls. Either she was leaving campus or . . . well, well, well! He'd heard the Ghost's house was being lived in. Had the slip of a girl managed to charm her way into it? Or into other things, perhaps? He would keep an eye on this one. Perhaps he would lead the traditional Halloween celebration after all.


	39. Chapter 38

**Author's Note: First of all, apologies for the delay in updates. My Dad came home from London on Monday, so I was obliged to hammer himat Scrabble,and then the internet despised me on Tuesday, so I couldn't update. I know I promised daily updates, and I'm so sorry about the lack of them recently.**

**Secondly, thanks to the comments and advice of WindPhoenix, I have edited Chatpers 35-37 - no major plot changes, just tidied them up a bit, so if you fancy a read, just letting you know.**

**And third and lastly, thanks to Shayril, CarolROI, terbear, Busanda, Soignante, Lady Winifred, Mystery Guest (mega thanks for another mega review), Spectralprincess, mildetryth, WindPhoenix and steelelf for the latest reviews. Oh, and I will try and be posting another chapter today because I do believe I owe you guys a double update. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 38

When she walked into Vocal Performance, the room fell silent. Carlotta had been regaling everyone with the full extent of her 'injury', and how neither she nor her mother would be settling for such treatment. She had then gone on to debate what state the Ravelle had fallen into to allow such animals to attend. A sandbag had fallen that time, but it had only deterred her briefly, since it had landed ten feet away from anyone. Another was about to fall – one designed to get the message across instead of simply a warning – when Christine had walked into the room.

She had deliberately slowed her walk so that she would not arrive too long before the start of class. Arriving late would earn her the attention she was trying to avoid. Arriving too early risked earning more than just attention. Arriving on time would make her look like a coward, so she had settled for a slightly early arrival.

Every eye was fixed on her as she walked in. She returned the collective gaze steadily, lingering on Carlotta's triumphant look for a few moments before she moved to leave her bag and take her usual place. Professor Gardiner graced the class with his usual obvious presence only a few moments later. The class proceeded as usual – although there was a palpable difference to the atmosphere. Whether it was tension, anticipation or even excitement was left to speculation. Christine left as soon as they'd been dismissed, not giving anyone the chance to talk to her – not that they usually did that much anyway.

This pattern continued in her classes for the rest of the week. She did her work well and participated as much as she could. If ever someone asked her or even raised the subject of what had happened, she brushed them off as politely as she could. Carlotta's glares continued and her fuming increased, seeing as she had yet to be given a chance for retaliation. She had been expecting an apology and had thought up numerous ways of prolonging the mute's discomfort in that situation. But nothing had happened. Her mother had told her that the Dean still hadn't got back to her on the matter and that he'd refused to say why.

She was about to take matters into her own hands after their next VP class, when Professor Gardiner called her over to him.

Her shriek was almost as deafening as the slap had been.

"WHAT!"

"Miss Guidacelli, having listened to the testimony of both yourself and Miss Daaë, the Dean has decided that whilst her actions cannot be condoned, your conduct was not blameless either." Gardiner replied, calmly and quietly.

"So you're telling me that little toad can slap me and _I _have to apologise for it?"

"No." Carlotta grinned triumphantly. "If you want an apology, you will first need to give one for what you said about her father." Her face fell again. "Miss Daaë will be punished for what she did, but other than that, it has been agreed that any apologies will have to begin with you."

Her face began to bear a remarkable likeness to her hair.

"I will _not_ apologise! She hit me, and if this school was anything like what it's cracked up to be, she wouldn't be getting away with it!" Her voice had risen in volume yet again, and it was beginning to rise in pitch, much to everyone's discomfort.

"She is not 'getting away' with anything."

"Then why aren't you asking her to apologise? I'm the one who got hurt, I'm the victim here! Not some pathetic little wannabe."

"Miss Guidacelli, you were not the first to be hurt, and from what I have heard, the blow you received is nothing to the one that you gave. Miss Daaë has been asked to apologise, and she has said she will – but only on the condition that you apologise for your words first. The Dean and the head of the Board of Trustees have both agreed with her on this point, as have I. Other than that, the matter is closed."

With that he turned and moved over to Christine, leaving the other soprano fuming.

"Miss Daaë, if I were you, I would not expect an apology any time soon. I will let Mr. Poligny and Mr. Debienne know that the matter is now in Miss Guidacelli's hands. You handled yourself well." He added, before leaving.

Christine did not let the smile show on her face – Carlotta was still there, and she was not one to crow – but the warmth she felt at the Professor's words did wonders for her. So she still had the support of the teachers. She finished packing her things away then moved to leave.

Carlotta grabbed her right arm viciously, preventing her from leaving.

"You think you're so clever, Daaë. I don't know what sob story you fed to those old fools, but you're _never_ getting an apology from me. Your father was an idiot to spout out ideas like that, and his daughter takes after him." Christine forgot her pain as the anger surged through her again.

"Christine?" Raoul stuck his head round the door. Carlotta dropped Christine's arm immediately and smiled at the handsome young patron.

"Mr. de Chagny, to what do we owe this honour? I'm afraid class ended a few minutes ago." She simpered.

"Thank you, Miss Guidacelli, I was aware of that. I actually came to see Christine." He held a hand out to his old friend, who took it, grateful for the escape. She probably could have handled Carlotta, but not without getting herself into more trouble. Besides, she was pleased to see a friendly face.

"Are you OK?" he asked tentatively as they began moving along the hallways.

"Yeah. Just a difference of opinion. You know what artistic temperaments can be like." She said with half a smile.

"Did you get into very much trouble for what happened?"

"I don't know yet. I don't have to apologise formally unless she does first, but they still haven't decided what they're going to do with me, other than that."

"Do you want me to put in a good word for you? I am considering being one of their new patrons, after all."

"No! I mean, thank you, but I'd prefer to do this on my own. I mean, I have to earn it. You heard what I said – about why I didn't use my real name. Papa and Mama would have both agreed with me about it. I do appreciate the offer, but it just wouldn't look right."

"OK, Little Lotte. But if there is anything I can do, you will let me know?" He returned, somewhat deflated.

"Thank you, Raoul." She replied, deliberately avoiding answering him. "I have to go now though; I've got a lesson."

"Classes have finished." He said in confusion. Before speculating as to why she would want to lie to him, he remembered their last encounter: "Oh, you mean a voice lesson."

"Yeah, sorry." She said, turning to head away.

"Christine," He stopped her. "I'm not going to be around for a few weeks – I've got classes of my own. I was wondering if we could maybe catch up a bit, before I disappear again."

"I'd like to Raoul, I really would, but I don't know if I can. I've got a pretty tight schedule."

"OK. Look, here's my number, if you find some spare time." He said, giving her a card before finally letting her go after a quick goodbye.

* * *

Carlotta had been left seething in the small theatre. But she had not been left alone.

"Now what's a star like you doing letting yourself be walked over by the likes of her?" She whipped round to see the scruffy, portly Master of the Flies ambling her way. There was a distinct smell of alcohol – and a few other things she didn't care to guess – on him; and his overall appearance and manner would usually have had Carlotta turning her nose up at him, if not laughing out right. However, he had managed to say just the right things to her – even if the delivery did leave a lot to be desired.

"I don't let anyone walk over me, Mr. Buquet." She replied with the right amount of indignation.

"That's what I thought. Call me Joe." He grinned. "Now, as I recall, you didn't think too much of our resident Ghost when I gave my little tour."

"An interesting little story for attracting tourists, Mr. Buquet. Surely you don't expect _me_ to take it seriously?" She scoffed.

"What if I was to tell you Madame Giry delivers the notes he sends? And that he's got a house."

"Why would a ghost need a house?" She said, dismissively – although the first titbit had managed to garner her attention.

"Ask your little friend, Daaë." Now she was interested.

"Why should I ask her anything?"

"No reason, 'cept that she's the only one who's ever lived there more than a few days without having an 'accident'. Have you heard of the ghost hunts I do this time of year? Quite the little party we have. Perfect way to celebrate Halloween, don't you think?"

"Perfect." She smiled in return.

* * *

Christine hurried to the main theatre, being careful to avoid anyone's notice. It wasn't hard – everyone had gone to lunch or left, depending on their schedules. She was somewhat breathless when she entered the dressing room – which she still couldn't believe was hers.

"So the boy actually consented to let you spend a little time with your angel." Was the greeting she was welcomed with.

"Forgive me, Angel. Car-"

"You say that so often, Christine," She knew she was in trouble. He only ever referred to her by name when whatever emotion he was feeling was a strong one. And the current emotion wasn't good, "so often in fact, I cannot help but wonder if I was wrong in trusting your faithfulness."

"No! Please don't doubt me, my Angel." He had been about to offer a rebuke when he realised she'd called him 'my Angel'. Hers. She had actually claimed him as her own. If only she could acknowledge how true that was.

"Angel?"

"I am still here, child." She let out a barely noticeable sigh of relief; at least he'd calmed down a little.

"I interrupted you." He prompted.

"Carlotta was told that she needed to apologise to me for what she said, before I would be asked to apologise for slapping her."

"A ridiculous condition. You were justified in your actions."

"Thank you, Angel. But I do have a bit of a temper, and I regret letting it get the better of me. I don't regret standing up for my father – I never will – but I don't know that I should have done what I did. But I'm glad you don't disapprove."

"Of course. She did not take it well." It wasn't a question. Had he been watching? Then why was he angry?

"No. And she did not let me leave until she'd gotten the point across." Christine unconsciously began rubbing her arm where it had been grabbed.

"She hurt you?" She realised what she'd been doing.

"It's nothing. She just has a stronger grip than I was expecting." She answered a little too quickly.

"Let me see."

"It's nothing, really."

"Christine-"

"How can I let you see when I don't even know where you are?" She blurted out. "I'm sorry, Angel. I shouldn't have said that." She whispered into the heavy silence that now filled the room.

"You are certain you are unhurt?" The voice that answered was a little thicker than usual.

"Yes. Raoul interrupted before she could try anything beyond words. He's actually going away for a while. Angel, he wouldn't have been a distraction otherwise anyway."

"I believe you, child. Do you have some music for me to see?" His voice light again. The boy was leaving! And he wouldn't have been a distraction. Had Christine truly devoted herself to him so completely? Or was that too much to hope for? There was little he had been able to truly hope for in his life, so whether it was too great or not, he clung to it. After all, only when one hoped for greatness could one have a chance at achieving it.

"Angel, how should . . . where . . ." She had no idea how to ask, based on her previous outburst.

"Place the music on the stand where I have left it. You will need to be able to read it without encumbrance." The stand was placed in front of the mirror, so that the music would be reflected therein, as would Christine. She obeyed, and waited.

"A good adaptation. Your father remained faithful to the music whilst suiting it well for a soprano. The harmonies would not overwhelm a higher voice. Yes, I do believe this will suffice. Now, scales." And so began the lesson.

He could not have said anything more wonderful to her at that point. She did not expect a complement for her own voice – he had not finished his work, nor allowed her to perform beyond what was expected of her during her classes. He was waiting for something, and so she did as was asked of her. But to have her angel praise her father's work that way – even if he wasn't the true Angel of Music, he was certainly qualified for the job – the joy she felt gave her voice wings, and she knew that she performed better in that lesson that in any of her others.

"Very well, child, you will perform this for the Christmas finale. You shall charm them with your voice, but it will not be the time to reveal your true gift."

"Yes, Angel."

"You are disappointed. But wait and I promise: you will bring them to their knees. Go now, child. You have earned a rest." She could not help the smile that time. It was the closest thing to a compliment he had paid her since their lessons had begun.

"Thank you, my Angel."

* * *

She'd done it again, as though it were natural, probably not even thinking about it the second time. He had watched her face as she sang. Praising her father's work had lit something up inside of her. She was leaving the shadows behind. If he could inspire her, recapture that hint of ecstasy and make it flourish, then his promise would be kept; for surely she had the power to make even the angels weep.

But how could a creature of darkness, the monster who lurked in the shadows; how could _he_ ever inspire such beauty and light in her?

There was hope. There had to be. She had rejected the friend of her youth for him. She had gone to great lengths to keep his trust. She had proved to be a devoted pupil. She had turned to him in her hour of need. She had wanted, no, _needed_ to hear his voice.

He had his answer.

So long as music held sway over Christine, he had power over her.

She was a child of Music, after all.

And he was her Angel.


	40. Chapter 39

**Author's Note: Double update, as promised. I hope you all like - it's something a lot of you have been asking for. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 39

_I'm sorry_

_Christine_

Three little words. Just three simple little words and they had cut through him like nothing else.

He had heard the whisperings, the rumours. They were the same every year. Buquet was almost more trouble than he was worth. Almost. He did manage to keep belief in the Ghost alive and well – even if his version was highly embellished – which meant that he did retain some use.

This year though, Buquet seemed to be sniffing around Miss Guidacelli in particular. And he did not like the fact that the extravagant singer had yet to offer any further attacks against Christine. That she had been well and safe since, he was happy with; the fact that Carlotta was clearly not given to subtlety left him feeling very disquieted, and so his watch and care over Christine had increased.

Then he had heard the harpy gloating with her simpering companion Piangi about their plans for the Halloween weekend. They were joining the ghost hunt, but their prey was not spectral: she was after Christine. How had they found out? Buquet, of course. He must have seen Christine when she had come running to the theatre, and then paid attention. He was finally glad that Giry had insisted she move out temporarily. He would have to tell her – she'd had his head if she were to find out any other way.

And he would have to preside over the ghost hunt. He couldn't have anyone thinking the house was lived in as opposed to haunted.

Which is why he had found himself lurking in the shadows of his own home once again, watching as the handful of students led by Buquet drunkenly called out to the Ghost to come out of hiding. He could not help but laugh at their stupidity. If they really knew what they were wishing upon themselves, they would instead be clinging to silence as they cowered under their quilts back in the residences. They did not do more than the usual trespassing and littering. There would no doubt be a lot of mess to clean up in the morning, but experience had taught that it generally looked a lot worse than it really was.

Once they were all exploring the inside instead of the grounds, he ventured in as well. As usual, they were all far too inebriated or inexperienced or both to bother with stealth, and so he did not have to be overly careful. But seeing as he was here with Christine in mind, he kept to the shadows and utilised the secret doors even more inconspicuously than he did in the Ravelle.

He opened a few doors and sent his voice into several ears, causing half the revellers to decide that they'd had enough. The rest he would have fleeing in terror: stories would circulate once more and the Ghost would again be respected as both rumour and legend, attaching enough credibility to the idea that his reign would be secure, as would the house.

He heard the stairs creaking. Nobody usually ventured upstairs. Who would be so foolish? He heard three sets of footsteps. The music room was locked securely, the door was solid. There was no way anyone could get in unless they were truly determined – and they would need to be sober for that. But out of habit, he made his way up to the room he valued the most.

He saw Buquet, eager to look over this part of the house. He saw Piangi, who clearly didn't want to be there. And he saw Carlotta, leading the two men, searching for something – before heading up to the second floor.

To Christine's room.

He changed his mind. There was a room he valued more than the music room – and the three musketeers were heading straight for it. He followed them silently and, as they stumbled about trying to discern the difference between their heads and their feet, whilst simultaneously trying to engage their _pia mater_; he hid himself behind one of the secret panels in the walls.

What did the harpy hope to accomplish? Was she so petty as to destroy a girl's room in return for a slap in the face? He didn't doubt it would be felt as a violation compared with the minor injury and deflated ego that had been inflicted. Or did she think Christine was actually in there? That she had not been woken by all the ruckus?

Think? Carlotta?

He brushed that idea from his mind for the folly that it was. They tried opening one of the few doors that were on this floor, but only found storage. They were at the other end of the hall to him. Carlotta miraculously developed a brain cell and began dragging her two cohorts towards the correct door. Before she could touch the handle, he slammed the door they had emerged from – as only he could from that distance. The three jumped and turned in surprise, then promptly shrugged it off. He began speaking into Piangi's ear – in perfect Italian – advising him none too gently that he ought to consider leaving. The boy's face turned an interesting shade of white before he began tapping on Carlotta's shoulder to get her attention. Whilst he relayed the idea to her, a voice whispered to Buquet from behind him – a voice only he could hear.

_I have warned you against this before, Buquet. My patience grows thin. Remove these children from my house lest you meet with disaster._

The man swallowed uncertainly, looking around. He'd had these tricks played on him before, but he'd never been able to best whoever was playing them. He decided that enough was enough. The girl wasn't in here – she would have been out of her room long ago if she was. His arguments for leaving joined Piangi's, but Carlotta remained immovable. She was determined to leave a message for Christine somehow. She was about to try again when the door handle seemed to speak to her.

_Have a care, Guidacelli. There are worse fates than being mute. Or would you care for a taste of that?_

"Did you hear that?" She whispered hoarsely.

"What?" Her compatriots asked.

"I could have sworn I heard someone talking to me."

"Lass, we've been telling you-"

"I didn't mean you, you fool." She berated the theatre hand.

"It's the Ghost, that's who it is." Buquet whispered, looking around him wide-eyed.

"Really _Joe_, enough is enou-" She ended on a yelp as the carpet the three were stood on was yanked out from under them. No one saw the hand that had done it, nor did they bother looking – they were a little too preoccupied as they ran down the stairs and out of there – collecting any wayward strays who weren't encouraged to leave by the flight of their leaders, or the mysterious whisperings in their ears.

Satisfied the house was now empty, he descended the stairs – far more elegantly than the others had managed – and carefully surveyed the chaos before him. So intent was he on his study that he did not see the redhead turn in wrathful indignation. He did not see her reach for one of the stray bottles that had been left. And he did not see her throw it through the window.

He heard it as the window shattered. And he felt it as the broken glass entered his arm. He held back the cry he longed to release – not of pain, but of pure rage. He watched as she blindly retreated, clearly not realising exactly what she had done. It didn't matter. She had injured him and she had damaged his house. She would pay.

Antoinette made her presence known as she stood in the door. She had seen them fleeing and had waited until they had all gone. They had worked silently on cleaning up the place each time it had happened. Neither spoke to comment on the mess, the disgrace, or the fact they shouldn't have to do it. Like with most things to do with the legend of the Ghost, nothing needed to be said between them on the matter. This time though, she spoke.

"Come."

He allowed her to lead him away to tend his injuries. She never asked: his pride wouldn't let him accept, and he never asked her: his stubbornness would dictate that he could take care of himself. His appreciation was felt though, even if it too went unspoken. As she finished tying the bandage in the back room of her house, he finally broke the silence.

"Christine is well?"

"She does not know of what happened. But she will find out soon enough. She was expecting something." She secured the binding and turned her back as he put his shirt back on and finished dressing. "Does she know you are the Ghost?" She asked over her shoulder.

"No. She still believes I am her Angel." Saying it brought to mind the way she had called him that, quelling the anger he still felt momentarily.

"Then whatever you feel about tonight's events, you must not let her see it."

"You think me a fool?" He asked, turning her to face him now that he was properly attired.

"No. But I know you, my dear. You are angry and unless you are careful, no matter what you wish, you will let it show. And then she will wonder what she has done." He closed his eyes, taking in what was being said.

"I cannot stay her angel forever, Antoinette. She needs more than a child's story. She needs more than a lie." She looked at him, the hint of tears in her eyes. He very rarely called her by her first name. It was his way of showing respect for her. The way he said it now though; it made her feel like a mother. She saw all that he could not say; all that he would not say, and she answered it.

"You have given her more than a child's story. You have answered the dearest wish of her heart. When the time comes, if you are honest and gentle with her, I do not believe she will mind." He looked at her, hope lighting his green eyes momentarily before despair clouded them once more.

"What do I know of gentleness, Madame? What does a monster masquerading as a ghost and an angel know of honesty?" He asked bitterly.

"You will find a way." She knew better than to finish that sentence the way she had for Christine. He had to acknowledge it first and of his own accord, or he never would.

A floorboard creaked upstairs. Antoinette's eyes shot upwards. The sound of footsteps echoed across the ceiling – probably one of the girls going to the bathroom. Her gaze returned to its previous level, only to be met with an empty room. She shook her head.

He would find a way. This had to end soon. He had been kept in the shadows for too long.

* * *

He looked at the damage once more. The anger surged through him in the garish light of day as he was met with the total disregard for his home again. The very idea that this mindless desecration could have been dealt to Christine as well turned the anger into rage.

He was about to head to the Ravelle and teach them the consequences of such disobedience when he heard Giry's voice calling from outside.

"Christine, be careful! Do not cut yourself on the glass." So early? What was the girl thinking? He barely had time to get the panel open when the key was turning in the lock. Had she not stopped to reply to her guardian, she would undoubtedly have caught a glimpse of him.

He watched her as soon as he had calmed his breathing. First he had been injured by a beer bottle missile, and then he had almost let himself be seen! He really was getting to be too soft. And the reason for it was currently stood immobile, mouth agape in his hallway. As she looked around, Giry put her hand on her shoulder. She absentmindedly put hers on top of it, acknowledging the silent support. Her eye caught sight of something on the floor. She moved over to it and knelt down, her hand going to her mouth.

"You said no one was hurt." She whispered.

"Perhaps one of them was careless and I did not see." Christine stood up, her eyes remained fixed on the floor – on his blood.

"He was here wasn't he? The Ghost was here. He's the reason nobody stayed very long."

"Child, ghosts do not bleed."

"Ghosts don't need a salary." The two women looked at each other, and the third party hiding beneath the stairs held his breath in astonishment. Christine moved into the living room, returning a few moments later with a very familiar looking piece of paper.

"I know you receive his notes. Will you give him this?" She asked her second mother, holding out the securely folded piece of paper. At length, Madame Giry took it. Christine retreated into the kitchen to survey the damage there and find a broom. Antoinette was too shocked to follow immediately – rather fortunate for her. When she did eventually follow, it was not without dropping the note and nudging it with her foot under the small crack beneath the stairs – where it promptly disappeared.

The two women worked quickly and well. The damage was not as bad as it looked, and was mostly superficial – with the exception of the broken window. The place was straightened up within a couple of hours; although the stench of alcohol and a few things they didn't care to guess the identity of would linger for a while.

"You can stay with us until the window can be fixed. I do not think it will take long."

"Alright." It hadn't been an offer, in spite of the delivery.

"What will happen?" Antoinette looked at her second daughter, trying to discern exactly what she was asking, wondering how she could answer.

"The Dean will be informed, as will the necessary members of staff. The damage will not go unnoticed or unpunished." Christine noticed that she had avoided mentioning any names as to who would do the informing or the punishing.

"Will everything be alright?" She asked carefully.

"In time." It was not the answer she had been hoping for, but at least it was better than an outright 'no'.

* * *

He had retreated to his lair as soon as he had taken the note. He knew Giry, and if his observations of Christine were anything to go by; they would spend the morning cleaning the place up again. He did not want Christine doing something so menial; she deserved better than that, but it would probably make her more comfortable than if the place were to 'miraculously' tidy itself.

He opened the note carefully, inhaling the scent of roses that had marked the last note as Christine's. Again it was only brief; again, the true meaning behind it was left to his speculation. It was written a little more carelessly, and it had not been addressed to him – although the use of Giry did make the intended recipient clear.

_I'm sorry_

_Christine_

Three little words. Just three simple little words and they had cut through him like nothing else.

With those three little words, she had managed to completely disarm him. His anger was gone, evaporated into nothingness. _She_ was apologising to him for what had happened? Was it what had happened to the house, or to him? Was she apologising for the fact that it had happened or that she had been unable to prevent it? It didn't matter. The message was clear.

Where everyone else had shown blatant disregard for person or property, she was showing compassion. He sank down onto the stool in his work area and placed the new note next to the old one. He fingered his latest drawing; he had begun it after their last lesson, finding himself once again inspired towards painting more than music. Her lips were parted, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. If he didn't know better, he'd have said she had the look of a woman in love.

But wait, he didn't know better. What did he know of love?

This compassion that Christine had shown was the closest he had come to knowing of love. At least, since Katie. But Christine's compassion was without pity, without cause or merit, and without knowledge. Hers was pure, innocent.

He turned his head to view his other latest creation.

The mannequin still needed a head. He had been waiting to capture Christine's features perfectly before he started work on that. His latest portrait might just do the trick.

_Ghosts don't need a salary._

Did that mean she could accept that the Ghost was in fact a man? Even though she was living alone in his house?

_When the time comes, if you are honest and gentle with her, I do not believe she will mind._

With those words, Giry had effectively given him her blessing. And refuelled his hope. She knew Christine far better than he did – reluctant as he was to admit it. He inhaled the note's scent again as he unconsciously fingered the drawing.

Yes, he had hope.

And the time for its fulfilment was drawing near.

* * *

**Whew! Glad we've got that out of the way. Now we can get on with the story . . .**


	41. Chapter 40

**Author's Note: Thanks to mildetryth (double thanks), Busanda (double thanks), CarolROI, steelelf (double thanks), Rose of Night, WindPhoenix, Shayril, Lady Winifred and TalithaJ for their latest reviews. Expect another chapter very very soon because I owe another double update. 252 reviews! You guys are the best. Thanks again and enjoy! Nedjemt.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 40

The entire Institute was frantic. Preparations were underway for _Hannibal_. Each department was in the preliminary stages of their work, be it learning parts or designing concepts for the production. The work load was tremendous, seeing as there would only be a few short days after the Christmas holidays before rehearsals would begin. On top of that there was still the usual workload from the course studies, and of course there were preparations for the Christmas Concert – which were done outside of the usual hours. On the whole, life was rushed for every member of the Ravelle, staff and students alike.

Christine felt even more rushed than the rest, since her Angel had refused to cut down the number of lessons, or the amount of work he required of her. Most of their time was spent perfecting her performance for Christmas – she had already learnt it, and had been pleasantly surprised to find that the lesson after she had first brought and left the music, her Angel seemed to know the arrangement note for note. She probably shouldn't have been surprised, but she was only human. There were even copies of some of the pages, with alterations that improved it. She hadn't minded – it had been her Angel to alter her father's work after all.

When she had presented the arrangement to Professor Gardiner – with her Angel's consent – he had been excited by it to say the least. It would be something the audience had never heard before, yet it captured the magic of Christmas, and the awe the Ravelle wished to convey. Plus it allowed more than just one student to shine – even though it was obvious there would be a star. After considering it for a few days, he had called Christine to his office.

"I have to say I am very eager to have this arrangement as part of our finale. I take it that seeing as you offered; we have your official consent to use your father's material?"

"Of course."

"Excellent. And seeing as it was your father who wrote this, I think it only right that you be the soloist. Your work in class has been excellent since your review, and I would be happy for you to perform the finale."

"Thank you, Professor." She said, smiling in relief. What with everything that her Angel had said, she didn't know what he'd think if she hadn't been offered the role again.

"I shall start arranging rehearsals and coordinating with the choir and orchestra as soon as possible. However, I feel I ought to advise discretion as far as this goes."

"You want it to be a surprise?" Christine asked, that being the only reason she could think of.

"There is that. You know that the first half of the concert shall be an arrangement from Handel's _Messiah_ with excerpts from several of Bach's cantatas, and the second half will be something more of a medley in terms of the performances."

"Yes."

"We have decided to use Miss Guidacelli as the soloist in the first half."

"I understand." Christine answered, looking him in the eye steadily so he knew she really did understand. Carlotta would have been expecting the finale. Being given the position of soloist for the first half would have satisfied her though. Learning that her rival had landed the coveted finale instead of her and with something that would undoubtedly be celebrated more than a traditional arrangement of Handel, discretion was definitely called for if they were going to pull this off.

Which is why at all the rehearsals thus far, secrecy had been stressed to all those involved. The excuse was that they wanted to keep the entire thing under wraps until the night, to heighten anticipation etc. It was also why the choir had been chosen very carefully. Gardiner was not usually one to give in to the rivalries that inevitably surfaced at the Ravelle; but he took great pride in his craft, and did not want to risk losing the opportunity that had been presented to him. In truth, the attitude of both Carlotta and her mother – who had been effectively dictating her daughter's treatment by the Institute to the board – had been grating on him for a while. He liked the (usually) shy Christine. Her modesty was refreshing, and the sheer natural talent she possessed was incredible. He was surprised to learn that she already had a voice teacher when he had offered to give her extra lessons. But he could not deny her progress. Even if he didn't even know the half of it.

Were it not for the stories she had grown up with about life in a theatre, Christine would have found all of this somewhat over the top. As it was, she simply found it tiring. And it began to tell during her lessons. She found herself being stopped far more than usual because she'd missed a note or a beat. They both knew there was little excuse for it, seeing as she knew the music by heart. More than once she left her lessons feeling more frustrated and drained than when she went in – and of course she would then be anxious when the next one came.

A fortnight before the concert, almost every spare moment was taken up with rehearsals, and they had even invaded classes a few times. For some reason though, Christine always managed to have a free hour or so at the end of each day for a lesson with her Angel. She had begun treasuring these hours. It was the one time of day when she could escape the stress of the Ravelle. There was always some point during their lessons when the concert was not mentioned, neither was her piece. She could simply listen to her Angel's voice advising or instructing her. Then he would ask her about her day, and she would tell him. Whether she believed he could resolve any problems she was having or not, it didn't matter, because then he would calm her with that voice of his. The habit had begun only a little while ago, because Christine had been on the verge of hysterics, she had been that worked up. She had then poured her heart out to her Angel, who had simply listened, then calmed her with soothing words and the promise that all would be well, and that she need not worry so much in future – and when she had gone, berated himself furiously for adding to her troubles.

She went to her lesson this day with a lighter heart than usual: rehearsals had gone very well, and Professor Gardiner had announced that they would be trying a proper run through tomorrow; full orchestra and choir included.

"So Gardiner has finally allowed them to hear the music." She was greeted with as she came through the dressing room door and began taking off her bag, scarf and coat.

"Hello, my Angel," it still warmed him every time she said that, "yes, I've been looking forward to it."

"Of course. Be careful though, child; the introduction of the orchestra will undoubtedly confuse the choir." He gently warned, not wanting to dispel her happiness. That, combined with the chilly weather outside had brought a delightful glow to her features.

"I know. But I've heard good things about the orchestra, so I don't think I'll mind having to repeat it a few times." She said, grinning impishly.

"Your exuberance is charming; let's see if you can pour it into your music." Christine resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. He probably wouldn't have taken it as a joke. Their lesson began, and Christine did indeed manage to convey the joy she felt in the latter half of the Fantasia – the first part being inappropriate for it. There were still a lot of points at which she was told to stop and try again; her angel didn't settle for anything less than perfection, and she was grateful for that – this was her father's music after all.

At length, the end of their lesson came, with the usual instruction that she was to rest when she got home. Just as she was putting her coat on though, she was stopped.

"I suppose the costume department has finally sorted out the wardrobe for the concert." She stopped and turned, curious. She had gotten into the habit of talking to the mirror, seeing as that's where the music stand had been put that first time.

"Yes. They've settled on black for the first half, and navy for the second."

"Presumably you will be required to change for the finale."

"Yes, but I don't know what I'll be wearing. They haven't told me yet."

"Turn around. Go behind the screen." She obeyed, wondering what had gotten into him. She went behind the screen and found hanging there the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. It was dark blue velvet, sleeveless with a flattering but not immodest v-neck, and a back in a similar, but lower cut. Shot through the fabric in patterns that reminded her of the star-filled heavens were strands of silver and metallic blue thread, making the fabric almost iridescent. When the lights hit her she would look as though she belonged in the night sky. The dress had actually been hanging there for a week now, but he had yet to find a way to give it to her. She stepped back out from the screen.

"Angel, did you do this?" She asked, her voice trembling.

"Yes." Her head lowered.

"You refused to impersonate Katie O'Neill. It is like one that she wore whenever she sang _O Holy Night_. Though you will be performing Vaughan Williams, I believe it will be appropriate, nevertheless." He explained, wondering what on earth the matter was. She raised her head again, tears in her eyes once more.

"Thank you, my Angel. It is a beautiful gift, and means more than I can say." She answered her heart in her eyes.

"Leave it here. It will be waiting for you when the time comes." He returned; his voice as thick with emotion as hers had been.

He watched her leave. When the Ghost had persuaded Gardiner to have her do the finale, and he had asked her to sing _O Holy Night_, it had been with the idea in mind of seeing Katie sing once more. He had brushed the idea aside as he heard her rejections of each proposal. But the dress he had been unable to resist. It was like Katie's indeed, but instead it had been made with Christine in mind. The dark blue would complement her porcelain skin and the colour would bring out her eyes. She would look like an angel. And it would be his doing. Clearly she had recognised the similarity between this garment and that of her mother's, but she had appreciated the beauty bestowed on her as well.

He hoped her appreciation of beauty extended beyond clothes.

Christine loved the dress. Not only would it be the most beautiful garment she had ever worn, not only would it have saved her a shopping trip on Meg's insistence or another fitting from the wardrobe department, not would she have a tangible connection to the mother she often had difficulty remembering, but it had been given to her by her Angel. It was a very personal thing to give a girl clothes, but she didn't mind it coming from him. How did he know her size? What did it matter? She trusted him.

She stopped her train of thought in horror.

It was a sleeveless dress. It had a low neck and back. Mother Giry would have to help her change, otherwise the scars would show. They'd have to be covered up after she had taken her other costume off. If they tried hiding the scars with make-up before then, it would rub off onto whatever she wore, making the whole exercise useless. Would she have enough time? There was a ballet in between the last ensemble piece and the finale. It was to conclude everything else and introduce the Fantasia – and give her time to change and have her hair redone etc. She hoped Mother would agree. Otherwise she was in trouble.

Rehearsals continued well. The other singers had indeed been thrown off by the orchestra, and it had taken a lot of attempts before they had gotten back on track. The Opera Ghost had apparently been sending notes aplenty to the managers and staff – according to Meg – giving 'suggestions' as to how the concert ought to happen, who had better improve on what, and generally expressing his discontent with the poor standards that he would not allow to be displayed in his Opera House.

Amazingly, Carlotta had not found out about the finale, probably assuming the ballet was the last item, and then everyone would be taking a bow – or in her case, several. Even though it was one less thing to worry about, Christine still worried. With the exception of her visit to the cemetery, she had not performed outside of a lesson since before her father had gone home. She certainly hadn't performed before an audience in many months. She tried to remember everything she had been taught – that you couldn't actually see the audience at first because of the darkness and the stage lamps, that if she focused on the music, she would be fine – but it didn't work. She couldn't lose the dread that had slowly been building until it began to show during her classes.

It was her last lesson the day before the concert. After this, there would be the performance; the holidays and then she would know nothing other than _Hannibal_. She began her warm-ups but was immediately commanded to stop.

"Christine, sit down." She did as she was told, sitting on the chair at the dressing table and putting her head in her hands, the stress of the past weeks breaking through.

"Child, you know the music. What has made you this nervous?" He asked gently.

"I haven't performed for an audience for six months. And tomorrow I'm doing the finale of the Ravelle Christmas Concert." She explained, the weight of the situation bearing down on her completely.

"Listen to me." He said firmly. "You are far better than any other performer they will put on that stage. Sing for your father, Christine. Sing for him and you need not worry about any audience." He regretted the suggestion. He wanted more than anything for her to sing for him, but if calming her meant giving up his claim to this one performance, then he would do so.

Christine raised her head again.

"You always know what to say." She said in wonder. "I will sing for him, Angel. It is his music, I couldn't do less. But I can do more. I couldn't get on that stage and sing unless it was for you as well. You have given me my voice, and it's time for me to return the favour."

He closed his eyes in sweet bliss. She had obeyed his instruction, but still granted his wish. And so, he granted hers.

"No lessons today, Christine. You know the music, and I will not have you straining your voice. Sit on the couch." She did so, wondering what would happen instead of the lesson. She had been disappointed at first, thinking he would not be guiding her when she needed it.

Her spirit began to soar as his heavenly voice began to sing and her eyes closed of their own accord, blocking out everything save for that glorious sound. It was the same wordless melody he had used to comfort her in the theatre. Now he used it to calm and encourage her. She rested back against the couch, allowing herself to drown once more in the beautiful magic he alone could weave. She forgot everything except that she was a child of Music, and her Angel was singing for her.

Her angel was singing _for her_.

Tomorrow, she would sing for him.

Because not even her father could claim the devotion she now owed.


	42. Chapter 41

**Author's Note: Here's the double update as promised. If the description of the music bothers anyone, apologies, but I wanted you guys to have at least a vague idea of this music, even if you've never heard it before. Hope I didn't drag it out for too long. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 41

"Is he here?" She asked Madame Giry, yet again.

"He is here, child. You can relax now." The ballet mistress answered in irritated relief.

"Except for the concert I have to be in, yeah." Christine answered, trying to smile, and failing.

Uncle Gustave was finally here! She had sent Mother Giry and Meg out looking for him since she had been dragged in to have her hair and make-up done. She had felt no fear about going to the hospital to see him, seeing as it wasn't for an appointment, and she had been feeling more confident lately anyway. He had been overjoyed to see her, even more so when she presented him with the invitation to the concert, and told him he could expect a surprise. She knew he could smell a solo of hers in the works, but she wasn't telling him what it was or when, no matter how many tricks he tried to get it out of her. The visit had killed two birds with one stone as they had also been able to finalise arrangements for her impending surgery.

She wouldn't have been forgiven if he'd not been asked. Plus, being her father's oldest friend, it was almost like having him there again, supporting her. Almost. Still, all the family she had would be watching her – from one place or another. Meg would be in the wings with Madame when she wasn't performing, Gustave was in the audience and her Angel . . . she knew he'd be there.

Everyone backstage was buzzing around, either chatting with their friends, doing whatever they did to quell nerves, or finishing off with wardrobe. She still had a good fifteen minutes before anyone would miss her or even think of looking for her. She slipped away and followed the corridors until she reached the door that led to her sanctuary.

The room was dark. Given that there were no windows, it was pitch black.

"Angel?" She called out tentatively.

"I am here." Came the soft reply.

"I know I probably shouldn't be here. I just needed to hear you." She said in apology.

"You are still nervous." It was not a question. He knew the sound of her voice too well to have missed the tremors.

"Not anymore."

"You doubted I would be here?" Was she really so insecure?

"I didn't doubt you, my Angel. I just needed to hear you."

"Then hear me." She didn't mistake the soft voice coming from next to her ear. Nor did she mistake the breath she felt on her cheek.

"Angel?" She turned her head, trying to find the voice.

"Shh, Christine. I am here. You need never doubt that." The warm breath was still on her cheek. She couldn't move even if she'd dared. Her angel was here! He was right by her side, and he was real.

"I don't doubt you, my Angel." She whispered. They stood there, he breathing in her scent and savouring her closeness. She held her breath, drinking in every detail of the moment that she could.

"Go, Christine. Go and show them what music can be." He whispered. Neither of them moved. It was only when Antoinette knocked on the door that Christine felt a rush of air beside her and she finally left the room.

* * *

The concert was everything that she had anticipated. Staged in the main theatre, the atmosphere was filled with anticipation. The first half held all the majesty of the _Messiah_, and the tradition of Bach. The orchestra played well – although there were some obvious cases of nerves for the first few minutes. The choir sang perfectly together. The soloists were strong enough to be distinct, without drowning everyone else out. Until Carlotta was called upon to sing. She sang as though she knew of no other volume besides _forte_, and unfortunately had developed her mother's habits when it came to high notes. She didn't waver too much from the score, thankfully – she was probably waiting until _Hannibal_ to show off.

In spite of this, Christine was glad for the first half. All of the VP students were required to perform in the choir/chorus for any concert or production that the Ravelle put on. It gave her a chance to reacquaint herself with the stage – when it was faced by a full house, anyway – and she felt somewhat more comfortable about the second half. It was a good thing she had learnt all of her part so that it was like a second nature to her, because each time she tried to lose herself in the music, she ended up being lost in thoughts of a certain Angel instead. Whenever this happened, her eyes would fly back to Reyer and her concentration would resume.

She only hoped she wouldn't have this problem later. She didn't want to let him down. Either of them.

* * *

Half the instruments in the orchestra were out of tune, the other half were being played by those who should never have been admitted to the Ravelle, the tenor was flat, the alto was off-key and the harpy was screeching away at the top of her lungs as though she enjoyed murdering music. Fifteen minutes after the start of the concert, once his usual critique had been got over with, he ignored all of this, and instead concentrated on the blonde soprano hidden away at the back of the choir. She looked elegant in the long black dress that was designed to make her blend in with the rest of the chorus. She was having difficulty concentrating. She had not been nervous when she'd left. Had something been said to her? Or was it not a case of nerves?

When she had entered the dressing room, he had been shocked into stillness. He had not even thought about leaving, she had caught him so off guard. When she had called out to him, he knew she could not see him. But he could see her. The black dress blended her into the shadows well, but her white skin and fair hair meant he could see her clearly, regardless. He should not have gotten so close to her, but he could _not_ have her doubting him. And it had been worth it, even though he had not dared to touch her. No matter how many times she dubbed him thus, he knew she was the angel. She had not left, even when he had told her to. Was that what had her so distracted?

Was it really possible that one brief moment had undone months of instruction? Had he distracted her so thoroughly simply by being near? He thought he had known the power he held over her. Apparently he had been wrong.

Perfect.

* * *

The second half was a welcome relief. The pieces used were designed to tell a simple Christmas story and were performed by the drama department, the orchestra, the dancers and occasionally the vocalists as well. Thankfully, there were very few occasions that called for Carlotta to taint the audience's hearing. They were instead taken gently through a story of the beauty, innocence and magic of Christmas that showcased all the latest talent of the Ravelle and left the audience feeling privileged to have been there.

The choir disappeared off stage having given a decent rendition of the _Hallelujah_ chorus from the _Messiah_, designed to celebrate the climax of the tale and bring the two halves together towards the end. As the chorus disappeared, the ballet came on seamlessly. Madame Giry had reason to be proud, for it could in no way be considered a poor follow-up for the chorus.

But she was not there. She was hurrying to a dressing room at the back of the theatre. She knocked briskly and entered. Christine was sat at the dressing table having been made up again quickly, her hair brushed out, raised up partially in an elegant style before being left to trail down her back. It allowed both her natural beauty and the addition of the dress to be fully appreciated. Antoinette came to stand behind her, placing her hand on her shoulder before having her remove her robe.

She tried not to let any emotion show as she saw her daughter's scars. They had healed tremendously, but the sight was still painful because of what had caused them and all that had followed as a result. But Madame Giry was skilled at brushing emotions aside, and so she took the make-up and began hiding the scars once more. She knew he would not be watching. He had promised he would not invade Christine's privacy – not that she needed such an oath from him. No matter what picture others might paint, he was a gentleman.

Eventually, the white lines had all been covered. Christine sat there a few moments in her underwear, waiting for the make-up to dry. They didn't have time to reapply it. Antoinette knew the ballet step for step and note for note. She knew when it was time. She reached for the dress and carefully helped slip it over Christine's head. She straightened it a little – it did not need much, the velvet being so heavy.

She stepped back and looked. She could see why he had chosen the dress.

"You look like your mother, child." She said her voice thick for the first time in a long time. Christine turned and looked in the mirror. She quickly and carefully brushed the tears away.

She was beautiful.

* * *

The dancers left the stage. The applause began, and went on until the lights lowered again; signalling that more was to come. She stood just in front of the curtain that divided the stage in two, the choir on the other side. She heard the politely quiet murmurs as the crowd wondered what was planned for the finale. As usual, the last item in the programmes was listed only as 'finale', with the principle performers mentioned. Gustave Valerius was probably the only person in the audience who had some idea as to what was coming. Or at least, who.

As a lone viola began the bittersweet introduction, the curtain in front of her began to rise. It was meant to be a cello, but that would not have complemented a higher voice so well. The viola retained something of the mellowness that was intended. As it died away again, Christine thought of her father as she was lit up by a lone spotlight and began solemnly:

"This is the truth sent from above, The truth of God, the God of Love: Therefore don't turn me from your door But hearken all, both rich and poor."

The choir began a quiet wordless melody for the bridge as the dividing curtain raised to reveal them, before the music died away to be eventually replaced by the viola.

"The first thing which I will relate Is that God did man create, The next thing which to you'll I'll tell, Woman was made with man to dwell."

They took over again as the bridge, the lights raising slightly on them as their voices became more prominent. Then the strings took control, continuing as Christine went on, slowly moving forward the more she related.

"Then, after this, 'twas God's own choice To place them both in Paradise, There to remain, from evil free, Except they ate of such a tree.

"And they did eat which was a sin, And thus their ruin did begin, Ruined themselves both you and me And all of their posterity." The pattern continued, the harmonies growing longer and more developed each time. Eventually, the choir took over, now fully in the spotlight. Christine moved away to be hidden behind them.

"Thus we were heirs to endless woes. Till God the Lord did interpose, And so a promise soon did run, That he would redeem us by his son." This developed into a crescendo with the last line, which was repeated by Christine, being joined again by the other voices before the strings took over. The bridge was much the same, dying away slowly until a cello took over, followed by the men singing cheerfully.

"Come all you worthy gentlemen that may be standing by, "Christ our blessed Saviour was born on Christmas day, The blessed Virgin Mary unto the Lord did pray O we wish you the comfort and tidings of joy!"

The last two lines were repeated as the women joined in quietly. A flute then took over, lightening the tone further with the violins and the women, who led the next stanza.

"Christ our Blessed Saviour now in the manger lay; He's lying in the manger, while oxen feed on hay. The blessed Virgin Mary unto the Lord did pray O we wish you the comfort and tidings of joy!"

Again the last two lines were repeated, the full choir singing. This time the full orchestra joined in as the final wish was developed into a full-blown crescendo; the sentiment repeated over and over as the music ascended beautifully, before descending once more into the quietness of the strings and the solitude of the harmonising viola. As this happened, the choir split in two so that Christine was flanked on each side by their dark shapes, she now alone in the spotlight once more. This was her favourite part, and as she thought of her Angel, she did not have to try to recreate the happiness she had felt; it came naturally.

"On Christmas night all Christians sing To hear the news the angels bring;"

The line was echoed by the altos who were lit by a dimmer light and backed by the strings.

"News of great joy, news of great mirth, News of our merciful King's birth." The pattern was repeated again, although they didn't get to finish before Christine began again, the altos turning their part into another wordless harmony to complement her.

"When sin departs before thy grace, Then life and health come in its place, Angels and men with joy may sing, All for to see the new-born king." This time on the repetition, the men joined in, as the music developed into a brief crescendo again

The music faded away, and Christine sang once more.

"God bless the ruler of this house, and long may he reign, Many happy Christmases he live to see again! God bless our generation, who live both far and near And we wish them a happy New Year Both now and evermore. Amen."

As she did so, the chorus punctuated each line with one of their own, the music becoming more and more cheerful.

"All out of darkness we have light Which makes the angels sing this night, 'Glory to God and peace on Earth, Both now and evermore. Amen.'"

Their voices mingled, briefly at the end before they all came together, singing the final blessing, flooded with light; this time the orchestra punctuated the sentences with the first theme.

As the lights dimmed, they faded away wishing the audience a happy new year. The music then quieted to the lone viola, Christine singing the wish one last time, the choir echoing it 'both now and evermore. Amen', as the lights fading away completely.

Silence reigned with music's echo. It was sublime.

Until the house erupted into thunderous applause. It was daring indeed to alter a classic piece that way, but it had worked beautifully, the singing had been wonderful and the soloist perfect. The choir took their bow before Christine was called forward to take hers. She did not bow, but as was the habit of her mother, she made a low curtsey. Actually, she had to make several before she was allowed to leave the stage.

As the others began their procession for the final applause, they were each given cheers as the audience showed their approval for the various performances. Carlotta was given a rousing cheer, which she soaked up. When Christine appeared, she was given a standing ovation.

Carlotta seethed.

Christine enjoyed it, having forgotten what it felt like, but no matter how long she stood there, accepting the praise, there was only one opinion which mattered. And she had to wait for it.

Eventually, she made her way through the sea of colleagues and guests offering their congratulations and asking her various questions. She managed to get away and all but ran to the dressing room. Mother Giry was waiting for her.

"Well done, child. You made him proud." The tear in her eye told Christine she was speaking of her father. Antoinette looked her over. Christine knew what she was looking for. "Go and rest, child. You will not be disturbed here. I will fetch Meg and Gustave for you in a little while." With which she left.

Christine slowly opened the door and went in, her nerves having returned full force. He didn't settle for less than perfection. She had given it her all – as much as he would allow – but what if she had failed? She didn't need to worry.

"Brava, brava, bravissima."


	43. Chapter 42

**Author's Note: Hi everyone! I am sooo sorry it's been what, a week? since I last updated. I think it was a combination of the craziness of life and writer's block - once a big event's happened, I can never think of how to carry on. Ormaybe I needed a breather. Whatever it was, I'm sorry. I didn't abandon you, and to prove it and apologise, this is part one of a double update.**

**Thanks to Spectralprincess, Lady Winifred, steelelf (double thanks), mildetryth, Busanda (double thanks), CarolROI, WindPhoenix,Soignante, TalithaJ, Passed Over and montaquecat (again, I don't know what the words is for 5x, but that many thanks, you're a star) for their latest reviews.**

**Oh, and thanks to my wonderful Beta, I've edited chapters 40 and 41 slightly - with 40, it's just a bit at the end. Helps it flow a bit better, but again, no major plot changes if you can't be bothered checking. Anyway, here's the latest update. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 42

She was stunning. The light that focussed on her at first was cold, meant to heighten the poignancy of the first poem. It wasn't needed. She had poured into it all the sorrow and solitude that was required, without turning it into a lament. She had not missed a single note, and though her voice had wavered a few times, he could hear the control and knew that it was deliberate. She had ignored his instruction on that point – and made it beautiful. She didn't obey him blindly. Whilst part of him was indignant that his authority be flouted, he couldn't help but admire the consideration with which she treated the music.

He was truly vexed when she left and hid herself behind the choir once more. They were tolerable, having finally learnt their parts correctly after a little gentle persuasion from the resident spectre, but it was well they remained in the shadows for the majority of the arrangement – they would never outshine Christine.

When they parted and she made her way forward, lit up and radiant in beauty, he could not help but think how like a bride she looked, moving down the makeshift aisle. But not an ordinary bride decked in white: a bride clothed in the night, a bride who belonged to Music. She looked like Katie, but he did not see her. He saw Christine, _his_ Christine. As she sang and the music developed, she was euphoric and there was none in the audience who could not help but feel the joy of the music with her.

She faltered as she began to sing the closing wish. She had done so many a time during there lessons; she had difficulty wishing long life to the ruler of this house, when she could not do the same for her own. She soon recovered, no doubt choosing to honour the memory of her father, rather than drown in it. She was not meant to, but as the chorus sang the final verse, she joined in, unable to resist. It didn't damage the music – she didn't drown out the choir as the harpy no doubt would have, she simply enriched the sound further.

As she sang the closing lines and sank back into the shadows, she paid no heed to the enraptured audience, she remained focussed on the music, allowing it to guide her back and away, returning both herself and everyone else to the silence that had filled the house only a few short minutes before.

The thunder erupted.

Such enthusiasm had not been displayed for any of the other performances for none had deserved it. Christine had triumphed. She had shown them music that had never been heard before and had them hanging on every note. And she had only given them a taste of her true potential. He watched as Carlotta seethed whilst Christine received a standing ovation.

All was right within his opera house. The true diva was in the spotlight receiving the praise she deserved. Christine belonged to him and remained devoted to her lessons.

And he would keep it that way.

It was some time before she returned to her dressing room. He heard Giry addressing her, praising her and giving her time. He had to admire Giry; there were few who had ever shown such common sense and adeptness when dealing with him. Finally, she entered. She was a vision. She called him the Angel of Music; she looked like an Angel of the Night in the most glorious sense. She looked nervous as she stood in front of the door. Did she expect a scathing critique? Surely not. He allayed her fears by openly bestowing that which he had hitherto denied her.

"Brava, brava, bravissima."

Her shoulders sagged with relief; her face brightened and was lit up by a smile of what could only be described as ecstasy.

"Thank you, my Angel." She breathed, finally venturing into the room proper.

Yes, she belonged to him.

* * *

He was pleased with her, and he had said as much! She had forgotten how much she enjoyed the stage, the performing and the applause; but it was nothing to the delight of knowing she had pleased her angel. His voice had truly sounded ethereal and were it not for her recent convictions; she would have been convinced once more that he was an angel, or a ghost.

"The crowd delighted in you, child. Soon we shall show them true music and then they will accept no other to grace the stage. I noticed you ignored my instructions in the first song."

"Yes, my Angel. I know it might be interpreted as a weakness in my voice, but I was careful,"

"Enough. It was well done. But you will consult with rather than ignore me in future." He reprimanded gently.

"Yes, my Angel. If I offended you, I am sorry."

"There was no offence this time, child. But enough, you have earned a rest and I believe you have friends waiting for you. We can continue our lessons tomorrow."

Christine's face fell.

"Angel, I cannot come to the lesson tomorrow." The air took on a noticeable chill.

"Am I to assume you require more rest?" The voice had lost its earlier softness.

"It is not that. Angel, I'm going away." She replied timidly.

"You're leaving?" His voice rising with incredulity.

"It's just for the holidays. Please, Angel, it's been arranged since the summer. If I could get out of it, I would."

"And I am to believe this? What could be so important that you choose it above lessons you have promised yourself to? Or perhaps you question my approval, which is why you have left it until now to tell me?"

"No!" Christine all but fell at the mirror in her petition. "Please, my Angel. There is nothing that means more to me than your guidance and instruction. I would not give it up for anything. I will be back after the holidays, maybe even before then. Please, I can't leave here with your anger. You're too dear to me for that. Please, my Angel." She finished on a whisper, having sunk to the floor. The tears shone in her eyes as she waited, filled with anxiety.

Just beyond her sight, a figure wreathed in shadow closed his eyes in tortured bliss. He did not want to let her go. The holidays were three weeks long. Three long weeks without her presence, without her voice. His world had become so focussed on her that he did not know how he would survive so long without her without going mad. But he was dear to her. He was important to her. By her own admission his was not an unrequited devotion.

"Where are you going?" He ventured into the stillness.

"To see my Uncle Gustave." She replied quietly.

"Your Uncle?"

"We aren't related. But he's my father's oldest friend and my godfather. I've always called him 'uncle'. He came to the concert. We were going to leave tonight."

"Why did you not tell me sooner?"

"I didn't know how. I didn't want to spoil our lessons or the concert, I didn't want to disappoint you, but I failed."

"Go, Christine. I will not be angry with you, provided you swear to me as you love your father that you will return as soon as possible." He finally answered, resignedly.

"I swear it, my Angel. I will come back to you."

"Until then." He said; the finality in his voice indicating the conversation was over. It seemed to be her night for disobeying him.

"Angel? Before I go, will you grant me one request?" She asked, timidly.

"What is it, child?"

"It's just that it will be quite a while before I hear you again. If it isn't too much to ask, may we sing together?" She held her breath, hoping she hadn't pushed her luck.

"What did you have in mind?" Not that he would have said no. She could not have made a better request of him – he wondered why he had not been the one to ask.

"Do you know _'Lift the Wings'_?" She received her answer a few moments later when the gentle sound of a violin filtered into the room. She closed her eyes in the rare but familiar ecstasy as his voice embraced her once more.

"How can the small flowers grow If the wild winds blow And the cold snow is all around?"

"Where will the frail birds fly If their homes on high Have been torn down to the ground?" She replied, echoing the sentiment.

"Lift the wings that carry me away from here and Fill the sail that breaks the line to home" He took the lead again, emphasising the separation of the song.

"When I'm miles and miles apart from you I'm beside you when I think of you, a Stóirín a Grá" She sang the Gaelic a little tremulously, which did not go unnoticed by either of them.

"How can a tree stand tall If a rain won't fall To wash its branches down?"

"How can the heart survive? Can it stay alive If its love's denied for long?" As she sang, her voice thickened, thinking of three weeks without her angel's support.

"Lift the wings that carry me away from here and Fill the sail that breaks the line to home" His rich voice soothed her and gave her the wings he sang of as her turn came.

"When I'm miles and miles apart from you I'm beside you when I think of you, a Stóirín" The violin stopped and his voice quietened.

"And I'm with you as I dream of you, a Stóirín" They sang together, singing to instead of for each other.

"And this song will bring you near to me, a Stóirín" He waited, wondering if she would take her part, hoping that she would whether she meant it or she was simply obeying the music. She raised her eyes and looked straight at the mirror, although not at herself.

"a Grá"

Silence filled the room, but music reigned supreme. Christine moved towards the door, having sung her farewell. As she reached for the door handle, she was stopped by the softest whisper that sang straight into her ear, though she could not feel it this time.

"Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán"

* * *

**AN: Sorry, me again. The Gaelic will be explained in the next chapter, if anyone's confused or curious. Just be patient.**


	44. Chapter 43

**Author's Note: And here's the apology chapter. Or me playing catch up. Whichever. Oh, just read and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 43

"How can the Angel of Music be a man?" Gustave asked in disbelief.

When they had collected Christine from the theatre, she had not been as excited as they had anticipated. Meg thought it was a delayed reaction and that she'd be bouncing off the walls in no time. Gustave similarly thought she was tired and the excitement would show soon. Antoinette wondered what had gone on in that dressing room, deducing at least that her daughter had not been abandoned because of the trip – she would have been distraught in that event. Once they'd gotten her in the car along with all their things, they had eventually managed to get her talking about the concert and more importantly, her performance. Her enthusiasm had returned, but it never managed to fully light her face the way they were used to.

Once she was settled in her private room at the hospital the next morning, Gustave managed to convey to Antoinette that he wanted a private word with Christine. Guessing that he might be able to find out what had her so distracted; she managed to drag Meg away.

He hadn't asked. He had simply sat down next to her on the bed and taken her hand. She hadn't looked at him, knowing what he wanted. After a few moments of silence, she began.

"I failed my angel." She looked at him then. His mouth was hanging open slightly in surprise.

"About a week after I first sang in class, I was stranded in the main theatre during a storm. I met the Angel of Music. He was the one who'd left the door open for me. He's been giving me lessons ever since. He even arranged for me to have the dressing room when the theatre wasn't viable anymore. Uncle, the music he creates, his voice . . . the things he says about Papa, I couldn't help but believe."

"Oh, my dear girl." Gustave whispered, tears of joy trickling down his face.

"There's more. I think he might be a man."

"Well of course, you keep calling _him_ that."

"No, Uncle. I don't think he's an angel. I think he might be a man." She explained, looking him steadily in the eye, trying to gauge his reaction.

"How can the Angel of Music be a man?" Gustave asked in disbelief.

"I don't think he is the Angel of Music. He doesn't know about mother."

"What do you mean?"

"He knows about Katie O'Neill, but when he gave me one of her songs to sing he didn't think I would know of her work, and he didn't believe me when I said that I was one of her greatest fans."

"Why would you say a thing like that?"

"To see whether he knew or not."

"Christine, there are few who know that you are the daughter of Katie O'Neill."

"Don't you think an angel would know? Especially one who claims to have been watching over me and to have been sent by Father? I know Heaven wouldn't be Heaven for Papa without her by his side."

"Perhaps it is his way of testing your faith in him?" Gustave ventured, not wishing to believe that his goddaughter was being taken advantage of in such a way. Cruelty would not be sufficient to describe such a deceit were that the case. But there were few who knew of her beliefs in the Angel, and she would not be easily convinced no matter what they had both been hoping.

"Then why does he display human emotions and feelings?"

"What?"

"He gets angry and frustrated when I make mistakes, which I could understand if he was the Angel, but there are times when he seems sad as well. And when I told him about Raoul, I could have sworn he spoke out of jealousy."

"That is quite a powerful thing to accuse anyone of, Christine."

"I know, but the way he spoke and the things he said at the time. And when he says my name, there are emotions there that no angel should possess."

"What emotions?" Gustave asked, now rather disturbed by what he was hearing.

"When he isn't particularly angry, there's a warmth there I don't know how to describe, and sometimes I think I hear . . . reverence, which I don't understand."

"Are you certain he's a man?" He asked one last time.

"Before the concert, I was so nervous; I went to the dressing room to see if I could hear him once more before I had to perform. It was pitch black, but he was there. He asked if I doubted him, and I said that I just needed to hear him. When he answered me, his voice was right next to my ear. He's done that before, but I've never felt his breath on my skin. He was stood there right next to me for quite a while until I had to go."

"Did he touch you?"

"No. And I didn't dare even try to touch his arm and find out for certain. But surely no angel could do that and not been seen in the dark?"

Gustave looked at his goddaughter, who was as much like a child of his own as she was to Antoinette. He saw the hope in her eyes, the convictions and the doubts.

"I think you're right. Whoever he is, I think he must be a man." Christine breathed a sigh, whether it was of relief or not she couldn't say.

"Because I don't believe angels can love." Her head snapped back up to her Uncle.

"I know it should be Antoinette's job to be the old romantic, seeing as you women usually have the flair for these things, but I think it's fallen to me. If you are certain he was jealous when you were talking about young de Chagny, then I would have to say it explains that and the rest of his behaviour. Have you never wondered?" Christine struggled to answer, her mouth opening and closing in disbelief.

"It crossed my mind once, but I never seriously considered. . ."

"Then don't." She turned back to him, now extremely puzzled.

"If he does indeed love you and has promised to keep you safe, then he won't break his word. Wait for him to say something on the matter, and until then, enjoy the relationship you have. If you think about it too much, you'll only end up spoiling that."

"Then you don't object that he's deceiving me?"

"Do you?" Christine thought about it a few moments – not needing very long, seeing as she'd thought of it many times before.

"He only called himself the Angel of Music when I did. He says he wants us to show the world what music can be together. I don't know why he keeps to the shadows, but I think he plays the part because it's the only way he can teach me, and stay invisible."

"Do you know who he is?"

"No. I think he might be the Opera Ghost though."

"The one whose house you live in?" She nodded. "And you still don't mind?"

"He's not the Angel of Music, I know that. But he's my angel of music. I don't mind, because I don't think he's visiting."

Gustave squeezed her hand before getting up and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Christine had always lived in a relatively small world, so she was not one to open up easily to others. She certainly didn't give away her trust or even the most basic of her affections easily. And this 'angel' had inspired a devotion in her that she had only ever shown to family.

To her loved ones.

Was it possible? Antoinette had arranged for her to live in the Ghost's house. She would know more about this man, whoever he was. Whatever the relationship Christine shared with him, if there were any signs of it being taken advantage of, Antoinette would not have it. He trusted Christine's judgement of the man, and he trusted Antoinette's judgement of the situation. Not that he would stop praying. As he reached the door, ready to leave Christine to change for the operation, he paused and turned.

"Oh, Meg wanted me to try and get it out of you, since you weren't particularly forthcoming. Where did you get the dress from? You were exquisite."

Her eyes filled with tears a little.

"He gave it to me." She whispered

"Christine?"

"He doesn't know about this." she said, gesturing towards the right-hand side of her face. "You saw the dress he got for me; he thinks I'm that beautiful. He expects nothing less than perfection in our lessons. Even if he isn't an angel, he's still so . . . daunting." She answered, her voice shaking. Gustave returned to her side and held her fiercely before holding her at arm's length so she looked directly into his eyes.

"Christine, stop. If he loves you, it won't matter. If he cares anything about you, it won't matter. I'll warrant he seeks perfection only in your voice, which we all know you can give. And you are beautiful. Never mind about the scars. You are beautiful and you always have been, and after today, there won't be any scars to discourage a worthwhile man. I'd say worthy, but I don't think the gods have made him yet."

Christine smiled and returned the hug.

"You old rogue. You'd like him you know." She said as he straightened up once more.

"Why's that?"

"He always knows just what to say as well."

"I think I might like him, you know." He said with a smile

"Gus-Gus." She replied with a slight groan.

"I'll come up with a story for the dress."

"Just don't involve the wardrobe department. Meg has a lot of friends there."

"Why am I not surprised?" They shared a smile.

"Uncle Gustave, thank you." She returned with deep feeling.

As she started readying herself once she'd been granted solitude, her thoughts returned inevitably to her angel. They focussed on the song they had shared. Each line of the stanzas had been about a pair being broken apart in such a way as you could only wonder how each half would survive without the other. When she had been left to sleep last night, the only thing to keep the nightmares at bay had been the sound of his voice, filled with those questions. She had not missed the way his voice had become richer the one time the song allowed him to sing and call her a Stóirín. His little treasure. Had he been waiting for her to reply with a Grá for reasons other than the music required it? She had sung for him in the concert when she had first thought she could only sing for her father with any success, and he knew it. And then she had left him. But he had blessed her when he knew that she was coming back, he had called her his darling.

But never his love.

She had an idea.

* * *

When Gustave passed Antoinette in the hallway, they exchanged a look that promised a long talk later, but also that everything was OK. By the time she reached Christine's room, her daughter had gotten into the hospital gown and removed all traces of make-up. The reminder of the state she had been in after the fire came flooding back, but was quickly pushed aside out of habit.

"Mother, when you go back tomorrow, will you do something for me?"

* * *

He had spent two days staring at his portraits of her, at the curtain that hid his gift for her from sight. He could not bear to look upon it directly, knowing she was gone. The only music that his fingers could draw from the keys was dark, gloomy and bitter. He didn't want to risk it drowning out the sound of her sweet voice raised in song, blending with his.

He could not lose the memory of her calling him her love.

Even if it had only been because the song required, it still made his heart swell. He had sung that last line to her to try and convey that he understood the words. He knew she did, for she sang them with such meaning, and it was not the kind inspired solely by music. She had promised to come back as soon as she could. He hoped she kept that, because he could not take three weeks of this.

_How can the heart survive? Can it stay alive If its love's denied for long?_

She had sung the words. And he knew the answer.

No.

"When I'm miles and miles apart from you I'm beside you when I think of you, a Stóirín a Grá" He did not even realise the words were coming from his lips until he was halfway through, but he did not stop the music. As he whispered the last four words, he found himself caressing his latest portrait. Christine as she was on the stage, radiant with beauty as music poured from her. The watercolour was filled with a silent ecstasy that he had created. He had made her happy. Would that she were here so he could do it again.

This was how Antoinette found him: hunched over the organ, singing softly to a picture of Christine. She saw the others that were scattered within his reach and knew there were more. Gustave had explained as much of his conversation as he could without breaking Christine's trust. That her daughter had made the connection about her tutor's possible identity was about the only thing to surprise her. The rest merely strengthened her resolve to keep a close eye over the two of them.

She nudged a loose rock, the sound alerting him to his presence. She was still far enough away it did not look as though she had invaded his privacy. He knew though, she could see it in his eyes. But he appreciated it nevertheless.

"Shouldn't you be with your daughter, Giry?" He threw over his shoulder as he began gathering up the drawings. He knew she had seen them, but they were still his and she did not need to see the detail.

"Meg is watching our video of _The Nutcracker_ before the Royal Ballet production begins. I had time for a visit."

"And what would bring you down here away from the festivities today of all days?" He asked sardonically.

"I come bearing a gift." His head whipped round, uncertain as to what to make of this.

"Madame,"

"If by my daughter, you were referring to Christine, she is with Gustave and she is well." His shoulders sagged slightly with relief.

"And she was most insistent that I come."

"She wanted you to come and see me?" He echoed hesitantly.

"Actually, she wanted me to leave her gift in front of the mirror. Since I can only assume that means it's for you, I thought I would ignore her instructions as well and deliver it in person." He had expressly forbidden her to visit at Christmas, as she had tried several times in the past. Her excuses had actually been quite inventive. This was the first time one had worked though.

"She sent me a gift?" He had yet to move. She stood before him.

"What is Christine to you?" He snapped out of his daze and looked down at her.

"She is my student."

"What is Christine to you?" She asked more gently, making it clear she had no intention of letting him avoid answering.

"I don't know." He sighed at length. She regarded him, reading in his eyes what he couldn't say. She took her hand out from her coat and offered Christine's gift to him.

He reached for the rose, unable to believe it was real, that this was real. He lifted it with the same care as when he had lifted Christine those weeks ago. It was a single yellow rose whose bud was just beginning to open; the stem bare save for two leaves, leaving room for the sprig of white ivy wrapped carefully around it.

"She was very particular about it. She knows the meaning of flowers."

He cradled the flower as he would a child. He slowly moved backwards and sank down onto the stool again, all the while staring at the bloom he held. Antoinette watched him, awed by this change. The only feeling he ever usually expressed outside of music was anger or something like it. Now, he was as expressive as a child. He looked as though he had been given the world and saw nothing else but Christine's gift.

"No one has ever. . ." He whispered, raising his head in wonder to look at Madame Giry. She swore she could see a tear in his eye.

"Happy Christmas, my dear. From both of us." She said knowing the simple wish had come true this year as her hand rested on his shoulder. He didn't feel it though. All he saw was the rose. It spoke of joy, of friendship. He traced the ivy around the stem which spoke of affection, and then the rose leaves.

She had given him hope.


	45. Chapter 44

**Author's Note: OK, I know I owe you all a double update, but I thought you'd rather have one chapter today than none. I will do the double tomorrow. I tried, but I just couldn't manage it for today. Many, many apologies.**

**Thanks again to Soignante, CarolROI, osdnfnsdaf (double thanks), WindPhoenix (double thanks), mildetryth, TalithaJ, Mystery Guest, Lady Winifred, Spectralprincess and Passed Over for their latest reviews. This chapter is dedicated to montaquecat for a whopping 14 reviews! Thank you soomuch, that was amazing! Thanks again everyone, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 44

Christine was bowled over – almost literally – by Meg when Gustave brought her back. When she actually let her sister breathe, she stepped aside to let her mother offer greetings as well. Antoinette embraced her second daughter before offering the same to Gustave. He only hugged family, so family tended to make the most of it.

Once she had been settled in and had her talks with Uncle Gustave and Mother Giry, there had been very little time to see anyone. The doctor had come in to go through the final explanations and then prepare her for the operation. Once she had come out of it and woken up fully from the anaesthetic, there had only been time for a brief chat and goodbye before the Girys had had to leave. Meg had protested, but Antoinette had work and meetings – and Christine's errand to run – and Gustave was still there. He had been the only one to see the results of the operation once the bandages had come off. But they had spent as much time as was allowed on the phone each day. Christmas had effectively been one long conference call – including, of course, the traditional viewing of _The Nutcracker_ for which a few of the staff found excuses to check on her for. They didn't often get patients who could discuss and critique ballet as effectively and amusing as Miss Daae and the Girys had managed.

The following day, Christine had received the belated Christmas present they had all been hoping for. The bandages had come off. There was still a little redness where the skin was still tender from the operation, but there wasn't a scar in sight. For the first time in a very, very long time, Christine had cried – but these had been tears of joy. They had inevitably turned sorrowful as thoughts of her father had come back, but she had not been alone. That was what she had dreaded the most about Christmas: spending her first without her father alone. Uncle Gus-Gus was a pretty good stand-in. Whilst she missed her father, there was another who she had wanted to comfort her that day.

Which is why she had spent just about every day asking when she could be released. The holidays were still only in the second week by the time the car had pulled up outside the Giry residence, bringing Christine back to where she wanted to be.

The pair were ushered in with the few pieces of luggage they had brought back with them. Meg helped settle Christine in upstairs and the two girls soon came back down. Christine had changed. Gone were the dark baggy clothes, glasses and severe hairstyle. Her hair was loose around her face. She wore a light pink turtleneck with jeans, both figure-hugging, and there wasn't a scrap of make-up on her. All eyes were on her as she moved the hair that had fallen over half of her face.

She brushed it out of the way. You could have heard a pin drop.

Antoinette rose from her chair with all the grace a ballet career can teach and moved to stand in front of Christine. She deliberately looked her daughter over, head to toe and with tears shining in her eyes, simply said:

"Welcome back, Christine."

Christine promptly broke out into the biggest grin she had worn for months and began dancing around the room with Meg who had recovered from the initial shock and promptly begun twirling her sister giddily. Gustave simply moved to Antoinette's side and, watching the two girls whispered,

"We need to talk."

* * *

The girls had been settled in their rooms – well, they'd been sent up to sleep, but they probably wouldn't settle for a few hours yet. Their giggles could still be heard every now and again through the ceiling. Gustave and Antoinette had retreated to the back room; Antoinette had a pretty good idea what he wanted to talk about, and she didn't want to risk either of the girls overhearing any of the conversation. In the back room, they could hear most of the movement upstairs, and they'd know if someone was coming down in time to stop talking – or at least change the subject. They had not had chance to talk much at the hospital – without Christine, Meg had not been easily distracted – and Gustave had not wanted to have this conversation with her present. Saying anything against her 'angel' would have hurt her, and she had gone through too much of that as it was; that, and worrying her needlessly before the operation would have been a really bad idea. Nevertheless, he still had concerns that could not go unaddressed any longer. 

"Who is this Ghost you arranged for her to live with?" Gustave began urgently. They'd known each other too long and cared about Christine too much to skirt the issue any.

"She doesn't live with him. He has not lived in the house since she moved in. He is an old . . . friend of mine."

"A friend?"

"An old acquaintance. He keeps himself too distant for me to call him a friend, but otherwise I would."

"From what Christine told me, I don't think he's been keeping his distance from her." He scoffed.

"He has been teaching her."

"So this 'Ghost' is the one who's been calling himself the Angel of Music?"

"Yes. I was not aware of it at first, but I have been keeping an eye on both of them since I found out."

"And what exactly is going on?"

"He approached her as the Angel of Music because he wished to teach her. The more time he spends with her though, the more attached, devoted he becomes to her. He says he will not do anything to harm her and I believe him."

"But?"

"It is hard to explain. She is the first person he has reached out to or allowed to become close to him for a very long time. There are few who have ever earned anything of his trust. He lives for music, and I suppose it was only natural that he become attached to her."

"Why these lies though? What sort of man is it who can only approach a young girl through a deceit of this sort? How do you know he hasn't been watching her?"

"He has."

"What!" Gustave jumped up from his seat in outrage. He paced the room a few times to vent a little, knowing that he had to hear the rest. Antoinette waited patiently for him. He was a reasonable man, and she knew her reaction would be in a similar vein had she been hearing this for the first time. Eventually, he resumed his seat, although his face was considerably redder than before.

"He watches over her. He promised to protect her. No matter what you are thinking, he is a gentleman. I know he has not invaded her privacy, and even though he has seen her cry, I don't believe he saw her face."

"No. She said he hadn't."

"As for the charade – hear me out with this – he believed it was the only way to teach her without frightening her. The reputation of the Opera Ghost is well-earned. Aside from his role as the Ghost, he is a recluse. He lives hidden from the world and goes to great lengths to stay that way."

"And you won't tell me why." She shook her head. "But he keeps himself hidden from the world and approached her the way he did because of it." She nodded.

"Something still bothers you." She stated at length, having considered him.

"He loves her, and I think she may return it somewhat."

"What?" Madame Giry was not one easily shocked, but that did it.

"Based on what she said, it is the only conclusion I could reach without being thoroughly disturbed by the whole thing."

"I would not be surprised by that, but what makes you think she feels the same way?"

"I don't know that she loves him, but I'd certainly expect to see signs of it in future. Everything she said about him she said with a devotion I have never known her to show outside of family. She lives for music, and you say he does as well."

"I see." A thought struck her. "He gave her music again. That would have made her as devoted to him as she was to Charles."

"But he is not her father. I know you are keeping secrets for him – I know you Antoinette, I can see it in your eyes – and I know better than to ask you to break them, but tell me what you can. Do you trust him?"

"Yes." Gustave let out a small sigh of relief. "That's the problem." He stiffened again. "He does not do things by halves and he is very possessive. He will not deliberately do anything to hurt Christine, but he could easily do so without realising the damage he's causing. I have been watching him closely, and I will not let him harm her."

"Very well." He breathed, accepting that there was obviously little he could do besides worry, hope and pray. "Between us, she will probably keep us informed of everything."

"And if she doesn't, I will know who to ask." She said with meaning.

They raised their eyes to the ceiling as a burst of giggles filtered down again and exchanged a paternal smile of their own. It was good to hear them laughing together again. Neither of them had had all their fears allayed. Neither of them had stopped worrying, but neither of them was sorry to have the girls still making noise at this time of night. Antoinette would not berate them for it now. Maybe tomorrow, she would have them settled down sooner. Tonight, they had the chance to enjoy each other's company fully.

Tonight, Christine had finally come back to life.

* * *

As soon as the rose had shown signs of wilting, he had dried it – no easy task given the moist climate that existed in his home. The rose no longer bore its freshness, but it retained its beauty nevertheless. He had spent half his time looking at it, thinking about her; and then the music that had threatened to drown him as he wallowed would instead consume him in all its majesty. Every piece of music he had ever written before had been leading up to this. He poured into it every emotion, every passion that he had ever known and marvelled as it took shape. All because of her. All for her. 

He looked to the mannequin that finally bore her likeness. Once more their duet haunted his thoughts, pausing the frantic onslaught of notes that had been pouring onto the pages before him. It had been a song of parting, but it was one that two lovers might share. She had sung it so tentatively at first. She had known the meaning of the words, the sentiment which the music had expressed! They had yet to look at any piece of music without first understanding it that it might be performed fully – he wouldn't have it any other way. And still she had chosen this song to leave him with. She couldn't know what he truly felt for her; there had been little to give her any such ideas. Was it possible that she didn't need to? Was it possible that similar emotions had taken root in her as well? Or was she simply torturing him?

No. She didn't know.

He was torturing himself by dwelling on such things. _Hannibal_. Chalumeau 's little offering was hardly worthy of her, but she would triumph nevertheless, and once she had proven herself worthy of music, it would be time to bring her home; to the seat of sweet music's throne.

He began scribbling again, the music filling his mind once more. Yes, it would be perfect. It had to be.

She said she needed him.

And he needed her.


	46. Chapter 45

**Author's Note: Thanks to steelelf (triple thanks), Soignante, montaquecat, jtbwriter, mildetryth and Lady Winifred for their latest reviews. And here's part one of the afore-mentioned double update. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 45

She was nervous. Actually, that was an understatement. She was so anxious that she was trembling – and it was rare for her to tremble from anything unless it was deeply felt.

When Christine had arrived at the Girys', she had been full of excitement at the success of the operation. She finally didn't have to hide her face anymore, or worry about getting caught in the rain. In fact, she had resolved that the next time it seriously rained she would be going for a very long walk. Though the scars were gone from her face and neck, they were still there on her back and arm. The visible ones had been removed, but strangely, she hadn't been able to part with all of them. It wasn't that the stress of the procedure would have been too much – granted it probably would have meant a bit longer in hospital – nor was it for want of persuasion from the doctors and those she counted as family. Though it wasn't the best, and it certainly wasn't one of the most pleasant, it was still a tie to her father. Perhaps one day, she would have another operation. For now though, she still needed them to finish healing.

Meg had teased her to no end last night: for once, it had been her who had literally spent hours in front of the mirror. After plenty of study, she had just about forgotten what her face had looked like, and though she was still surprised by her reflection, it wasn't quite enough now to make her do a double-take. There was a small hairline scar around her temple, and another near the base of her neck, but they were barely noticeable – she had had to point them out to Meg. Perhaps it was time to hang a few mirrors in the house. It would certainly make a change, having to check her appearance more often, but she would relish it. She hadn't felt this feminine for a long time.

Which may explain why she had spent so long choosing what she would wear to her lesson today. Assuming she would be having a lesson. Once they had seen off Uncle Gustave and Meg and Mother Giry had finally let her go back to the house, her thoughts were finally allowed to rest solely on her Angel. She had been so excited at the thought of 'seeing' him again that she had rushed upstairs and begun digging through her wardrobe immediately. It was probably silly, trying to impress an angel. As she had been changing though, it had hit her. She wasn't trying to impress an angel. She was trying to impress her Angel.

She was trying to impress a man.

Since her talk with Uncle Gustave in the hospital, the memory of their duet which she had thought would be a comfort had instead been utterly confusing. Was it possible that her Angel did love her? Or even thought about her at all in that way? If so, what had that song done to him? If he'd gotten the wrong idea then their relationship could be lost. She had known what the song really meant even as she'd suggested it. And yet she wouldn't have chosen anything else. What did that mean?

It was these and many other questions that had gotten her nerves so fraught. Coupled with the fact that their parting could have gone better if she'd been a bit less forgetful or worried, she actually dreaded opening the dressing room door. She was stood outside for quite a few minutes before she finally plucked up the nerve – or at least realised that there was every chance he was watching and her behaviour wouldn't be doing her any favours.

As she switched on the light, she let out a small sigh of relief. The room was just as she remembered it. She didn't know why it was comforting; probably the hope that they could just pick up where they left off. She didn't take off her coat straight away. Instead she tentatively called out:

"Angel?"

Silence. She waited a few moments, and then her shoulders sagged. It wasn't as if he had said he would be waiting for her all the time. But he had said that he'd be watching, and made her swear to come back as soon as she could. Perhaps he hadn't been speaking of lessons. But what else could he have meant?

She sat down on the couch and let the warmth return to her. It being the start of January, the weather was bitingly cold, and she was glad she'd wrapped up warmly. The chill outside appeared to have extended within, in spite of the warmth of the décor. Even though her temperature was gradually being restored, Christine still felt the occasional shiver. The silence was driving her mad! In the hospital, it was to be expected so she had been prepared for it. At the Girys' – well, there was little room for silence courtesy of Meg. Here though, it was just plain wrong. She began humming to try and dispel the thick atmosphere that she was beginning to feel. The notes were quiet and tremulous at first, just a nonsensical little ditty like the kind anyone would sing. Then she found the notes forming a recognisable tune of their own accord.

"That is not meant to be hummed." She jumped up off the couch and faced the mirror.

"Whilst Chalumeau's work leaves a lot to be desired, there is no excuse for belittling it and yourself in the process." The rebuke continued. Christine didn't care too much, she was just glad to be hearing him.

"I didn't realise I'd been humming _Hannibal_." She replied, somewhat breathlessly.

"Is this how you define practising? Wasting your voice by allowing yourself to fail the music?"

"No, Angel." She hadn't called him her angel. "I have been practising the way you taught me. The staff didn't let me waste my voice once I started."

"Staff?" Where had she been?

"The staff where my Uncle works. I spent some time with them there." She answered a little too quickly.

"Tell me, what uncle would work during Christmas with you as a guest?" From his tone, she wasn't sure if he intended that as a complement or an insult.

"He's a doctor. We both anticipated it. I just enjoyed the time we had together."

"There is still a full week left of the holiday." He ventured.

"I know." Silence. He was expecting something. "When we were planning it, we weren't sure when the holidays would fall or how long they'd be. We had only planned for the two weeks. And I wanted to come back. I missed you." She finished quietly, her head lowering with the volume.

He closed his eyes in silent relief. He knew she'd been stood outside the door, and dreaded the reason for her disquiet being that she wished to end their lessons, or that something had happened to 'distract' her – like that boy. She had missed him, and she had been nervous about admitting it – she was blushing now. Or was the blush because of a lie. She had been a little too quick in her explanations of her uncle.

"I assume you have come ready for a lesson." He returned coolly. Her head shot up again with a smile brighter than any he had seen.

"Yes, my Angel. I brought the score for _Hannibal_ as you requested." He had said they would be preparing solely for the opera once the concert had passed.

"Very well. Place it on the stand and open it to the aria you were attempting. If you will perform it absentmindedly, then I think you had better learn to do so correctly."

She finally got around to taking her thick coat and gloves off, then took out the score and obeyed. He was extremely glad she couldn't see him as she arranged the sheets. He had noticed that she wasn't wearing her glasses when she'd come in, but now . . .! The red turtleneck sweater and black knee-length skirt and boots clung to her every curve where her previous wardrobe had hung loose. Her hair was hanging down her back and although she had pinned some of it away from her face, there were still a few loose tendrils framing her forehead. He had thought her beautiful when he'd first seen her. He had known it when she'd sung for him. As she performed on the stage, he had thought her perfect. This was a whole new side to her. She looked . . . sexy. It was a word he'd never consciously applied to a woman before. The most wonderful part of it was that she moved as though she didn't even realise the power she had. She carried herself with more confidence than usual, as though she felt more attractive, but was still restrained enough that he could tell she didn't know the full extent of her charm. It was so . . . Christine.

"Angel?" She asked softly. He was glad he hadn't addressed her as 'child' today. It didn't seem appropriate somehow. It was going to be a long lesson.

Two hours later, having discovered that whist she had indeed been practising and that the aria was as challenging as she imagined, Christine was finally allowed to rest.

"Enough. We will continue tomorrow." Since he'd resolved not to call her 'child', he had ended up being even more curt than usual – he couldn't think of anything else.

She collected the music – since he hadn't asked her to leave it, and she needed to study it anyway – and then moved back over to the couch where she began packing away.

"I was intrigued by your last request of me." Her movements stilled. "I confess I would not have expected you to think of _Lift the Wings_." She turned to the mirror.

"I suppose I don't just take after my mother with my looks."

"Oh?"

"She used to sing that song as a goodbye when she really didn't want to say it. It was something she only did for the people who were most important to her. I couldn't think of another song that would suit." She remembered Uncle Gustave's advice and didn't say the 'l' word.

"Thank you, Christine." The whisper echoed in return.

"Angel, may I ask something of you?" She asked tentatively, wringing her hands a little.

"Of course."

"Meg will be wanting to spend the rest of the holidays with me, but she doesn't usually get up in the mornings without her classes. I was wondering – seeing as there's all that free time – I was wondering if we might have some extra lessons in the morning? Only if it's convenient for you."

"Had you not gone, we would have been having extra lessons anyway. It is not inconvenient, it is essential. There is much to prepare, especially as you are not as familiar with this music as the _Fantasia_."

"Would eight o'clock be alright then? I'll probably have the whole morning free."

"Of course." He replied, lighting up inside. Four extra hours a day with her, and she had volunteered them.

"Thank you, my Angel." She replied, finally putting on her coat and collecting her bag. As she turned to the door to make her way out, she caught sight of something on the dressing table. Where the customary rose would be at the end of a good lesson, there was instead a small black velvet box. After hesitating a few moments, she went to the box and allowed herself to touch it.

"Go ahead, Christine." Twice in one lesson, he had never said her name that often. Never mind the trembling, it was with now shaking hands that she picked up the box and opened it. Resting on the black silk inside was a small pendant on a delicate chain of silver. It consisted of a circle of glass with a tiny rose pressed inside. Christine lifted it delicately to find that on one side the rose was yellow and on the other, it was red.

"Happy Christmas, my dear." He whispered. It didn't matter that it was belated. It was each of their roses in one combined. It was without a doubt the most beautiful gift she had ever received. She lifted the chain carefully and placed it around her neck. As it settled, she touched it delicately and turned to her reflection in the large mirror. It was her turn to whisper.

"Thank you, my Angel." She didn't bother to hide the tears that sought to fall; it was a luxury she had not enjoyed for some time. She let them fall so that he might see what it truly meant to her.

"Go now. You have an early start tomorrow." She left him with a smile.

* * *

She had come back to him. Had asked to spend more time with him.

He drew his hand down from his side of the mirror where it had come to rest after he had vainly reached out to wipe away her tears. One day. Those tears had not been of sorrow. She appreciated the value of his gift – and not in monetary terms.

He thought of their duet again. It was the last memory he had of Katie. She had sung it to him. He had refused to sing it with her when he found out the reason for it. He hadn't even looked at her until she was finished. She hadn't wanted to leave him. And he had ignored that, thinking only of her betrayal. Perhaps the promise he had been waiting for, for so long was going to be kept: she had said her child would save him.

And Christine was well on the way to doing that.


	47. Chapter 46

**Author's Note: OK, mega chapter here. It's basically because I didn't want to break the flow of this one, and because I actually owe two double updates (ducks oncoming missile for lack of the extra chapter). Hope this makes up for it. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

**AN: PS, this is the new and (hopefully) improved version of the chapter, if you're reading it for the second time. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Chapter 46

They had spent the mornings working on Christine's part in _Hannibal_ – or at least what her Angel insisted would be her part: the lead. He was more demanding than ever. He worked her harder than he had for the last concert, exercising her voice until she feared going hoarse, but the progress she was making was incredible. The duet and the gifts were not mentioned again, although Christine always wore the pendant to her lessons. Instead, there was an unspoken agreement that their relationship was not as formal now. Once he had finished teaching each lesson and was less inclined to snap, he now referred to her as his dear, and she always left him with a smile.

Christine had all but abandoned her former wardrobe. She was almost back to her old self – except for a couple of phobias – and she, like Madame Giry, gave a lot of credit to her mysterious tutor.

When she walked into her first class of the year – Vocal Performance – she actually managed to turn a couple of heads. As she took her place in the circle, Professor Gardiner had actually had to ask who she was; the change in her was so different. He began the lesson by introducing _Hannibal_ yet again, and Christine couldn't help but notice the smug look on Carlotta's face. She hadn't heard anything out of the young diva since she'd been advised to apologise, neither had she made any fuss about the concert finale – very unlike her. Christine couldn't help but worry.

"Well, enough delays. We have a lot of work to do in the next few weeks, so I believe it's time to put you all out of your misery. The parts have been awarded as follows: Ubaldo Piangi as Hannibal," the class applauded whilst Piangi tried and failed to affect surprise as he bowed. "Elissa, Queen of Carthage and his mistress," a few giggles were silenced by Gardiner's stern glare. Christine held her breath, dreading this moment. "Elissa, Queen of Carthage will be played by Carlotta Guidacelli." Carlotta didn't bow as the majority of the class applauded. She instead soaked up their praise, smiling very smugly at Christine whose face had slipped back into its old unreadable mask.

She didn't hear the rest of the names being read out, although she knew that hers wasn't mentioned for any of the parts. That meant that she, like every other vocalist, was relegated to the chorus once again. Which meant they would no doubt have dancing classes to attend as well as all the others. Coupled with her lessons, she was going to be run ragged this term.

Her lessons.

Her Angel was going to be furious! She had not failed him; she knew that. He had praised her; he would not have done so if she had let him down. Carlotta must have gone back to her mother after the concert and together persuaded the board or the managers to grant her the lead, seeing as the Guidacelli name was more well known than that of Daaë. The Ravelle was a working theatre, and even though they only put on two major productions of their own a year – the concert didn't quite count – they prided themselves on always putting on sell out performances. Had they not given into the Guidacellis, they could have risked a boycott which even they could ill afford.

Whatever the reason, it didn't change the fact that her Angel was going to be outraged. They had been preparing her for the lead. They had covered the chorus parts before Christmas. He hadn't been as particular about the latter, having been intent on her receiving the main female role, so they had only served to familiarise her with the music.

The class soon began to split off into groups to go over their various parts, as had become their custom. So much for the first day back being easy. Professor Gardiner moved around each group, working with them where they needed help. This was to be their format for the rest of the week until rehearsals began in earnest. When he reached her group, Gardiner asked for Christine to stay behind after class.

Carlotta couldn't resist a sneer as she left. It was probably meant to be another self-satisfied grin, but it just didn't turn out that way.

They waited until the class had vacated the smaller theatre, she gathering her things together. When the place was finally empty, he led her to his office again. She could probably find her way blindfolded the number of times she felt she'd been there.

"Miss Daaë, I felt I should tell you: based on your performance in the concert, I was hoping to cast you in the lead, but my decision was overruled."

"Thank you, Professor Gardiner. I do appreciate that a lot." She replied, feeling somewhat easier about the conversation.

"I would have told you this in the theatre, but there is something else I wanted to discuss with you."

"Oh?"

"Miss Daaë, what do you know about the Opera Ghost?" He asked, leaning forward slightly, as though afraid of being overheard. Christine's mask slipped back into place.

"Only what I've heard." She replied honestly. She didn't know for certain that her Angel was the Ghost.

"Then you know we have a tendency to receive notes with that signature."

"Yes."

"We received one after the Christmas Concert. It isn't unusual to receive one detailing the errors of each performance, and . . . recommendations for the next."

"Recommendations?"

"More like instructions. Which are usually followed." He said with meaning.

"I understand. I'm sorry, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"The note we received after the Concert came with a particularly strong recommendation that you be cast in the lead." Christine's face paled. "The board and the managers have a few objections to the Ghost and his notes, and I'm afraid his unusually strong urgings in your favour, coupled with the recommendations of various of our patrons were what counted against you."

"Am I to understand by 'patrons' that you mean Luciana Guidacelli?" Christine ventured.

"I can't answer that." Gardiner replied, in a tone that confirmed the obvious.

"And you were wondering if I knew why the Ghost would take an interest in me." It wasn't a question. She wasn't stupid, and Gardiner had deliberately moved them out of the theatre for this, probably trying to move out of the Ghost's hearing range.

"Miss Daaë, I'm not implying anything. Your conduct – except for the minor incident with Miss Guidacelli – has been exemplary. Your progress is admirable and I could not have been more pleased with your performance at the Concert. You were my first choice for Elissa, and you still have my support."

"Thank you, Professor Gardiner. I do understand the board's position. I don't know why the Ghost has taken such an interest in me." Her reply tapered off a little as she suddenly thought of her current living arrangements. He considered her a few moments, waiting to see if anything else would be forthcoming. At length, he replied,

"Very well. If there's anything you can think of, will you tell me? I only ask out of concern. I am not normally one to believe in such stories and rumours, but the Ghost is not one to be taken lightly. If this interest he has taken in you remains, I'm not sure what it might mean, but I am worried." He elaborated, believing that there was still something.

"Madame Giry is looking after me, Professor, but I do appreciate your concern. I will come to you if anything turns up." She replied steadily. He regarded her a few moments more.

"Thank you, Miss Daaë." He said, letting her go at last.

Christine hurried away as discreetly as possible to her lesson. Preparations for rehearsals were in full swing and the theatre was bustling every moment of the working day. That would be the pattern until dress rehearsals when the pressure would be on and then quite a few members of the departments would be putting in some overtime as well. Christine had managed to find a back way into the building which would mean she could just about avoid notice.

"I do not believe even Gardiner is in the habit of allowing his classes to run so late." She wasn't even able to take her coat off before she was greeted, or rather, reprimanded.

"I'm sorry, my Angel. He wanted to talk to me after class."

"No doubt wishing to explain the lunacy of allowing that squawking banshee to pollute the stage again."

"He told me that he did want me to play Elissa, but-"

"But the Guidacellis believe they reign supreme in this Opera House." Christine didn't attempt to reply. He only interrupted her when he was in a particularly black mood. And he had never called the theatre an Opera House before.

"Do not worry, my dear. You will be playing the lead." He continued.

"Angel, if the board thinks-" she tried.

"They do not think! Or this would not have happened. The board cares more about publicity than music. They fail to realise that if they allow inferior _performers_ to excel then they will only succeed in ruining the reputation they are so worried about." He snapped, turning the word 'performer' into a scathing insult, making it obvious who he was talking about.

"It's alright, my Angel. I know - I've met them." She said in what she hoped was a soothing voice. Perhaps now wasn't the best time to ask him to satisfy her suspicions.

"Of course, my dear. I should not be taking this out on you. Come, let us begin our lesson."

The lessons continued as usual that week. He did manage to get in a criticism of the management at each one, but Christine learnt to soothe him. Or at least she thought she did. In actual fact, it was mostly her presence that did that. When rehearsals began, surprisingly he calmed down. He only criticised the management when Christine mentioned them or if her day had been affected badly by their decisions. Strangely enough he never mentioned Carlotta, nor did Christine hear anything further on the matter, other than his reassurances that she would be playing the lead. Not that he was letting the matter lie.

However he intended to manage it, Christine prepared herself for both roles with equal fervour. Having had Madame Giry as a second mother and having been a part of many of Meg's practices, she had an ingrained talent for dancing that secured her one of the two lead slave girl roles. Meg took the other, and for anyone who thought it was a sign of favouritism that the Ballet Mistress' daughter be given the lead role, they soon changed their tune when they saw the perfection that was expected, not to mention the gruelling regime that came with the part. Christine's role did mean that she was a rather prominent performer, although otherwise undistinguished as a vocalist within the chorus.

Between her scheduled classes, the extra classes and rehearsals, Christine was usually exhausted by the time her lessons came around with her Angel, even more so than when they had been preparing for the concert. But there were few opportunities to relax even then: he was determined that she would not simply shine, she would triumph. Half the time, she didn't know if she could, his criticisms and demands seemed so severe and unforgiving. But then he would weave his magic, draw the music out of her and her faith would be restored. Whether it was in her Angel or herself, she could never tell. It didn't matter.

The case of the Ghost and his notes went ignored when it became apparent that nothing more was going to come of it. Carlotta managed to tease Christine at just about every opportunity she could get about her 'relationship' with the resident phantom, so Christine took care to make sure there were as few opportunities as possible. Her plan didn't quite work when things started going wrong for Carlotta. First her timetable was switched – she never bothered to learn it – so she kept showing up for the wrong classes, or if she managed to get to the right class, she had prepared the wrong part. Then sections of her score would go missing, the costumes would have a few too many pins in, making fittings an absolute nightmare – especially when she let the wardrobe department know of their incompetence. These little 'accidents' plagued her throughout rehearsals, making her even more unbearable than before. Eventually the Ghost started to be mentioned again. Once this began, Carlotta focussed her anger fully on Christine. The management refused to listen to her after she had made several accusations against her rival – in the same day – so the diva was left to her own devices. To her credit, Christine simply ignored this as best she could, threw herself into the role she had and in short, rose above the situation, earning her the sympathy of many instead of the ostracism Carlotta had no doubt been hoping for. Christine had stopped telling her Angel of these troubles, seeing as he knew about them and offered what comfort he could when she arrived at her lessons anyway. The few that he didn't manage to see, she didn't bother with, seeing as that would have only roused his temper yet again.

In spite of this added drama, the rehearsals went ahead well. With the exception of Vocal Performance, just about every department had – under their own discretion, of course – adhered to a certain spectre's advice and the production was running smoothly, as long as one didn't count 'La Carlotta' as she had been labelled. With each day and every passing rehearsal, Christine's initial assessment of her was proved more and more accurate: she really was a Prima Donna, in the worst sense of the word. As time passed and the pressure mounted, the various departments began to come together and soon the majority of the classes were taking place in the main theatre. They still had some actual work in classrooms, to cover the other aspects of the syllabus, but other than that; this was the Ravelle, and the production came first. Everything else, they were taught along the way and expected to learn fully. However, as the production came together, Carlotta – seeing that she suddenly had something resembling an audience – began to lord it over the rest of the cast and crew. And she got worse with time.

* * *

Eventually, it was the day before the show. The entire institute was packed into the main theatre. Whilst some might think this would make it crowded, that was not the case. The theatre – like most others – was not simply the stage and its auditorium. There were all the areas off stage that needed to be staffed and overseen as well. The cast was on stage, the orchestra was in the pit and the technicians were either up in the rigging or in their various offices monitoring everything. They were currently working their way through the first act of _Hannibal_ and the full scale of the opulence was almost overwhelming – except for the fact that they had all been around it for weeks now. As was to be expected, last minute nerves were settling in and there were a few mistakes, including Carlotta's gown being trodden on and torn during her grand welcoming of Hannibal. 

Once the chorus was finished and everyone was allowed to breathe again, Carlotta promptly began moaning at the unfortunate members of the costume department who were required to be nearby. The dancers took their next places on stage and began as soon as Reyer struck up the music. Even though their concentration was fixed on the performance – Madame Giry's strict discipline having been drilled into them for months now – they did not miss the two managers who had appeared and were discussing the production with her. In spite of Reyer's protestations, Doctor Poligny soon joined them and interrupted the rehearsals when he thought it was convenient.

"Attention everyone, for those of you who haven't already had the pleasure, allow me to introduce the theatre managers, Mr. Richard Firmin and Mr. Michael Andre, new to the Ravelle this year. This will be their first full scale production, the same of which can be said for many of you. I am sure you will all work well under their guidance, and continue to make Ravelle a name to be proud of. Thank you." Having made his speech, he gestured to Reyer, allowing him to proceed. He then turned his attention to the two leads who were currently . . . taking a breather.

"I believe we have our stars here, Miss Carlotta Guidacelli, who I understand you have already met." Poligny introduced diplomatically.

"Of course, Miss Guidacelli, and may I say what a pleasure it is to have you as our Elissa." Firmin said, fawning over her hand in what he supposed to be a dignified manner. Ubaldo coughed indignantly to get their attention and was similarly introduced, although not fawned over to quite the same extent.

A burst of excited chatter and giggles from just off stage diverted the managers' attention again, and during the next break another introduction was made.

"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Raoul de Chagny, whom several of you will have met before, representing the de Chagny family who we are pleased to welcome as our new patrons. Of course, the formal announcement will be made at the gala tomorrow." Poligny declared.

"Thank you, everyone. My family and I are keen to support the arts, and look forward to this latest production's success." He was then introduced to the 'stars', before beating a rather hasty retreat with the Dean, clearly not thinking much of the way that Carlotta was unabashedly throwing herself at him. He walked straight past the dancers, who now included Meg and Christine. Meg saw Christine's face fall and put a reassuring hand on her arm.

"You've met him? He's totally hot, you have my approval." Meg smiled, trying to cheer up her adoptive sister.

"When Papa and I used to travel to the coast for the summer performances, he was there with his family. We spent hours every holiday playing together. Papa used to joke that we were childhood sweethearts. I guess he forgot about me again. He only recognised before when everyone found out my name."

"He just didn't see you. He did look like he was in a hurry. You can't blame him; did you see what Carlotta was doing to the poor guy?" Christine smiled a little in return before they were called back on stage for their next scene, only to be subjected to another one of Carlotta's tantrums. Apparently she had had enough of the costumer's incompetence and was threatening to quit. Having been obviously subdued by their earlier dealings with her and her mother, the managers were playing to her every whim. Christine and Meg looked at each other and rolled their eyes in unison. Eventually the diva was placated by a request for an aria. It was the one Christine had been humming her first day back after Christmas. She inwardly braced herself, having been tortured with Carlotta's extravagant massacre of the pretty tune before. She wasn't the only one. Meg pointed out a few members of the crew just out of Carlotta's peripheral vision who were putting in ear plugs – and they looked like they were doing it with a practiced ease. Reyer certainly wasn't happy; having conceded to this latest request with what had lately become his usual sarcasm.

Carlotta began, throwing her voice into it with more gusto than at the Christmas Concert. She tried to sing as though she were a coloratura – and failed miserably. The higher notes came out in a half-strangled sort of way, and there was still the climax of the song to reach! Christine thought she saw even one of the managers wince, although she couldn't be certain.

The set fell.

Carlotta was knocked to the floor. It hadn't landed right on top of her, but her costume was extravagant enough that she fell anyway. The ballet girls screamed. The technicians began rushing around trying to shift it. No one had seen it coming until it was halfway down. Someone called out:

"It's the Ghost!"

This prompted no end of whisperings and panic amongst those on stage. Those off it weren't faring much better either – there were too many places where a ghost could indeed be hiding. Christine looked around anxiously, wondering not for the first time if this were being done for her.

Everyone looked up to the rigging where Joseph Buquet was peering down. Firmin called up to him, demanding an explanation.

"I'm sorry sir, there's no sign of anyone, well anyone human." He answered with a hint of a grin. Firmin was about to question his ludicrous statement when his attention was abruptly brought back down to the stage. Carlotta was screaming in indignation as she was finally hauled up and the stage began to be set right again.

"Enough! I'll not take this treatment anymore. I quit!"

"Miss Guidacelli, you can't walk out now. Look, this is a theatre. Accidents do happen." Andre said in an attempt to placate her.

"These 'accidents' have been happening for weeks and I will not have them happening to me anymore. You can't expect anyone to work in a place that obviously isn't safe. I know my mother never had to put with such unprofessional standards." This prompted a few scoffs from the less intimidated members of the cast and crew. Unprofessionalism was not something Carlotta was in any position to lecture on. "I've had enough. You've done nothing to prevent this and you still do nothing, and until you do something, I refuse to work like this anymore. " She said before storming off the stage. Piangi followed her in an attempt to console the temperamental diva, in between muttering something about amateurs and how this would never happen in Italy.

"What do we do?" Andre asked, realising that their star had just walked out on them.

"The box office is sold out. We can't cancel. We'd lose all credibility." Firmin replied, adding to the worry.

"She'll come back." Andre stated, in an attempt to calm everyone.

"Clearly you are new here, monsieur." Madame Giry said, approaching them with a familiar looking piece of paper in her hand. "I have a letter from the Opera Ghost."

"Madame, surely you are not given over to these ridiculous superstitions as well." Firmin interjected. He was ignored.

"He would like to formally welcome you to his opera house," a remark which earned some indignant scoffs from the two gentlemen, "he requests that you continue to leave Box 5 empty for each performance and also wishes to remind you that his salary is due."

"His salary!"

"Yes, Monsieur Firmin. He is paid a monthly salary."

"Oh never mind all this nonsense. We have a real problem to deal with. Look, do we have an understudy?" Andre turned to Reyer, a desperate look in his eyes.

"Understudy? There is no understudy for 'La Carlotta', in case our illustrious board failed to mention their decision to the management." Was the only help he would give.

"There must be someone who knows the part, surely."

"Christine Daaë could sing it." Hearing the familiar name, the managers stiffened instantly.

"Daaë? The same Daaë, Miss Guidacelli has accused of being in league with this 'ghost'?" Firmin asked suspiciously.

"Have you anyone else, Monsieur? Let her sing. Professor Gardiner will agree that she has been well taught." Madame Giry continued; her presence quelling the interrogation before it could truly begin.

"Oh? You have another voice teacher, Miss Daaë?" Andre asked. Christine hesitated, knowing full well this could decide whether or not her Angel's promises would be fulfilled. She answered the only way she could: honestly.

"I don't know his name."

"Indeed!" He answered triumphantly. He soon calmed down on encountering Madame Giry's glare. Remembering whose support the young singer definitely had, he conceded, "Oh, very well. Andre this is doing nothing for my nerves." Firmin said, clearly not in the mood to encourage the poor girl, as he made no effort to lower his voice.

"Well, she's very pretty." Was his reply as Christine moved forward slowly to centre stage. She looked nervously to Madame Giry who nodded encouragingly. Looking down to Mr. Reyer who was awaiting her, she was met with his smile of encouragement as he began the soft melody once again.

Christine sang. Softly at first, somewhat overwhelmed by the whole situation. She looked at Mother Giry again, and then cast her gaze out to the auditorium. She remembered what it felt like to sing to a full house. She remembered the exhilaration. She remembered her Angel. And she sang.

She showed them what music really was.

When the final line came, complete with the phrase that had caused her so much grief in her lessons; she focused on her Angel and finally found perfection. The orchestra didn't even have chance to finish playing properly before the applause started.

Everyone came up to Christine, praising her; the managers fawned over her as they had Carlotta, only Christine received it with shy modesty.

Christine was Prima Donna.

And somewhere up in the rafters, a shadow was smiling.

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**AN: And we all know what's coming next . . . Sorry to leave you hanging, well, not really :) Thanks again. Nedjmet.**


	48. Chapter 47

**Author's Note: Thanks to steelelf, Spectralprincess (double thanks), jtbwriter, montaquecat (double thanks), Lady Winifred (double thanks), soignante, mildetryth, Mystery Guest (mega thanks for another mega review) and jeevesandwooster for their latest reviews.**

**Sorry about the delay, but the site wasn't letting me upload documents for some reason. However, thanks to CarolROI, I found a way to get this posted, so CarolROI, this chapter is officially dedicated to you as an extra special thank you.**

**This is quite a long one, but I was tired of waiting. And if you're not sure what that means, you'll soon see. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

**AN: PS, this is the new and (hopefully) improved version of the chapter, if you're reading it for the second time. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Chapter 47 

Christine had been taken off to one of the empty studios in the theatre by Reyer to go through the score. He was astonished to find how well she knew the role, but put it down to Gardiner's support; the Ghost's favour not being something he was willing to consider much. Perhaps Gardiner had been teaching her and the Ghost had overheard or some other such explanation. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for the ease and grace with which she took over the role. Her voice was much sweeter than her predecessor's, and she had a modesty about her that was a very refreshing change. All in all, he couldn't help but agree with the Ghost's decision – even if he couldn't quite find it in himself to condone the actions that had led to its fulfilment.

Once they'd gone through the part and Christine had received Reyer's inevitable seal of approval, they returned to the stage where they began the full run through again. Christine did make a few mistakes with the choreography, having only watched Carlotta and never tried to emulate her properly, but she corrected them and learnt quickly. The session ended up running longer than they had originally planned, since they had the whole opera to run through along with a few rest breaks in place of the intermissions. Couple that with the fact they were already behind schedule because of the partial run through with the original casting, and the late finish was inevitable.

When the rest of the school was dismissed, Reyer and Madame Giry went over with Christine the few mistakes she had made, all of which she jotted down on her copy of the score with the promise that she would have the corrections learnt for tomorrow.

"Thank you, Miss Daaë. I know it is a lot to take in, having the role put on you at the last minute, but I feel confident that you will succeed." Reyer said, by way of parting. He was still a little too panicked by the whole situation to offer any further encouragement – or to attempt to convey sincerity. Once he'd left, Madame turned to Christine.

"Go and change. I'll collect you in half an hour." Christine had gone through the whole production in her slave girl costume – the wardrobe department had had to spend the day altering Carlotta's costumes to fit Christine, and Christine's to fit her understudy. She'd be practising in the Elissa costumes tomorrow morning to get used to them. But she didn't want to think about that any more. Padding her way to her dressing room, she shut the door, mechanically changed and then sank down onto the couch.

"Why do you sigh?" She had not realised she had done so until the deep voice brought her back out of her thoughts.

"I don't know." She replied, not turning to the mirror, still in a bit of a daze. When she was answered by silence, she snapped out of it and rose gracefully from the couch, facing the mirror. "Carlotta walked out. They gave me the part of Elissa."

"They finally came to their senses. You should not have been their second choice by any means, but you did well."

"Thank you, my Angel."

"Something troubles you." He observed.

"Yes."

"Surely you are not worried about the performance tomorrow? You know the part and will exceed their expectations. I guarantee that." Was that a hint of pride in his voice?

"Thank you. I am a little worried about some of the choreography, but I think it'll be alright in rehearsal tomorrow." Her hands began to fidget.

"Then what is it that bothers you?" He asked, now obviously concerned. She looked towards the mirror, uncertain as to how to go about this, but knowing she had to have it answered.

"Angel, if I ask you something, will you promise to answer?" A familiar chill entered the air: he was upset by her request.

"I will answer what I can." He eventually replied. She took a breath and ventured,

"Angel, are . . . are you the Opera Ghost?" The silence was thick and heavy. And it lasted for quite a long while.

"Angel? Are you still there?" Christine asked, worried. Nothing. "Angel, please answer me." She pleaded, beginning to grow frantic. "Angel, forget the question if you don't want to answer, please just tell me you haven't left!" She called out.

"I am still here." She calmed down a little, still anxious about her question. "Yes, Christine. I am the Opera Ghost." Her head shot up.

"You were the one who did those things to Carlotta? And sent the note about me?" She asked, falteringly.

"Yes." He answered, his beautiful voice devoid of any emotion. She sank to the floor, automatically crossing her legs, having had the dancer in her awakened recently.

"What if she'd been hurt? Or they'd believed her when she said I was working with you?"

"It doesn't matter. Nothing would have come of it, Christine; I would not have allowed it."

"How can you say it doesn't matter? If she'd been hurt by you-"

"Then this matter would have been resolved long ago! It is not your concern." Christine instinctively backed away to the door at the emotionless steel that statement was uttered with. He saw the shock on her face and called out in urgency as she reached for the door handle.

"Christine, stop!" She did as ordered. She never could resist that voice. "You will not leave." He said firmly. Ordinarily, it would have worked.

"What if I do? Will you drop a sandbag on me?" She answered in defiance, even though her voice shook.

"No! All I have done has been for you to excel. It was never my intention to cause you pain. Were it not for the folly of this Institute, I could have brought the world to your feet by now." Hearing the tenderness and conviction in that dear voice, Christine turned her head towards the mirror.

"You are the Opera Ghost." It wasn't a question this time.

"Yes." He sighed, the only outlet for the overwhelming disappointment he felt.

"And you are the one who let me live in that house?"

"Yes." His voice sounded a little more hopeful. Christine considered it all for a moment. The whole day was overwhelming, and having her suspicions so thoroughly confirmed did not make it any easier. Her voice took on the dazed tone again.

"You really have been watching over me."

Her hand reached up to touch the pendant, a gesture she had found herself repeating whenever she grew anxious.

"Thank you, my Angel." She whispered. A knock sounded on the door.

"Go, Christine. I will be here before your performance tomorrow." The voice instructed, although not without a relieved note to it. She nodded, unable to say anymore and left with Madame Giry.

* * *

She knew. When had she worked it out? Would she never cease to surprise him? When she had asked that question, he had been horrified at first, not knowing how to answer without the risk of losing her. She had never enquired about his identity before, at least not since one of their earlier lessons; he had foolishly thought she'd learnt to be content. Where would her curiosity lead? As she had tried to leave him in fear; in that moment he, the mighty Opera Ghost, had been truly afraid. 

But she had accepted him. Had thanked him, had remembered that he was her Angel. Hadn't she? She had seemed uncertain when she left.

He had to take control of the situation again. He had worked too long and hard to lose her now. Everything was ready for tomorrow. He had to keep her with him.

And he knew just what to do.

* * *

He was the Ghost. Her Angel was the Opera Ghost. And he was a man. He had promised to watch over her, and seeing as this was his house, then he had an easy way to keep that promise. She didn't look over the libretto as she'd promised. Once Mother Giry had gone, she had instead gone straight up to her room, thinking it the one place where she'd be guaranteed some privacy, and just lain down on the bed. 

Carlotta had been plagued all term and could have been seriously hurt by the set that had fallen – not to mention the couple of sandbags from last term. And it had all been for her. She didn't know what to think. Her Angel was the Ghost who was a man willing to go to these incredible lengths, just to have her perform.

She thought of what Uncle Gustave had said, and what she had said to prompt his observations. He was still her Angel, but she wasn't sure how long that would hold. She would get through this production, and then think about her mysterious tutor. For now, all she could do was push all such thoughts from her mind except for the music. She drifted off to sleep to thoughts of _Hannibal_, Ghosts and Angels, with the odd vision of Carlotta thrown in.

Suffice to say, she did not get much rest.

* * *

The next morning, she was awoken by Meg's rather enthusiastic knocking on the front door. Her adoptive sister was anxious to get Christine to rehearsals, if only to once again enjoy the fact that Carlotta was no longer in the lead. Actually, she was excited to see Christine performing again, and coupled with her own enthusiasm for the gala, she had had no trouble getting out of bed this morning – unlike most other days. 

Christine spent the day in a flurry of costume changes, last minute fittings and rehearsals. They only really had the morning: the afternoon would be spent in final preparations of the stage and theatre, with the cast utilising the studios for last minute practices before going in to wardrobe and make-up a few short hours after lunch. Seeing as absolutely everyone was involved – refusal to participate would have resulted in suspension – starting that early was actually still considered by the more experienced as leaving it to the last minute.

After four hours of rehearsals, Reyer allowed Christine to have her lunch, and even though it was only a very short while before the curtain went up, he managed to leave her with a more positive attitude this time.

"Well done, Miss Daaë. It hasn't been long, but it's been a pleasure working with you, and I don't doubt you'll stun them. I can only imagine how well you'd have managed if you'd been allowed the full time to prepare the role – not that anyone will be able to tell the difference."

She thanked him as best she could, being somewhat lost for words. The confidence everyone was placing in her was tremendous. Were it not for the repeated assurances of her Angel, coupled with all the instruction she'd received from him over the course of their lessons, she'd be completely overwhelmed at the moment. As it was, she was simply on the verge of having a mild panic attack, in spite of the excitement at performing on that stage again.

Reyer found her after she'd finished her lunch.

"I don't believe we need to do any more work, Miss Daaë. You know the part, and anything further would only be 'gilding the lily', as it were. Well done, my dear. I'll see you on the stage." He said, refusing to add the traditional 'break a leg'. With the Ghost around, that had proved to be just asking for trouble in the past.

Christine was grateful for the reprieve; she wasn't sure how many more 'adjustments' to her performance she could take. She retreated to her dressing room, followed only by numerous wishes of good luck. She welcomed them, needing all the sincere encouragement she could get, but was thankful her dressing room was isolated – it was the first chance she'd had to breathe since Meg had woken her up. The corset she'd been squeezed into that morning by the wardrobe mistress meant that this was quite literally the case. It was just a plain white corset with a white shift that had a full skirt. It was integral to all of her costumes, but was modest enough that she could move around in it comfortably the rest of the time. She would be changing into the more elaborate version of it later.

She looked around her dressing room, her haven. It was so peaceful. Christine sank onto the couch, put her feet up and closed her eyes as she leant back, finally able to rest.

He watched her lying there. The décor and soft lighting brought a glow to her that almost hid the weariness she had succumbed to. Almost. She must have had a restless night. He hoped it wasn't on account of him. She was so beautiful; he was content to just watch her. Whatever troubled her had obviously come back, as she began to stir and a frown creased her forehead. That would not do, not when she had a performance to give and obviously desired, if not needed the rest.

So he sang.

It was a simple lullaby, intended to calm her back into a quiet slumber.

She woke up instead.

She didn't move, just lay there drinking in the music, but allowing him to know she was awake – wherever he was. The doubts and questions that had come back to fill her mind as she'd been trying to rest were leaving once more, being washed away by the spell he always knew how to weave over her. It didn't matter if he was an angel, a ghost or a man. He knew Music, had given it back to her and continued in that gift every day. So long as they had the music, she would have her promised Angel, whatever form he took.

The song died away.

"You came." She breathed.

"Did you doubt it?" He asked with a hint of humour in his beautiful voice.

"No. I'm just glad."

"You are?" He couldn't quite believe it.

"Do you doubt me?" It was her turn for the humour.

"You are ready?" He asked quietly.

"No. But I will be once I'm on that stage." She said with confidence. It had always been the way with her. The familiar dread and nervousness would hit once the dress rehearsals began, but all would fade away as she stood waiting to go on stage. Then, the only thing that mattered was the music, and it was the only thing that would fill her mind.

"Then show them what Music is, Christine. Let them glimpse the heavens. You alone can grant them Music's splendour, my dear, and after tonight they will know that as surely as your father and I do."

"Thank you, my Angel." She answered with the familiar tears welling in her eyes.

"He will be watching you; sing for him, my dear, make him proud."

"I would not have thought there could be a greater encouragement. But he will understand why I cannot give him my song tonight, my Angel. It belongs to another." A knock sounded on the door. She was due in make-up.

"Go, Christine. I will be watching." She turned before opening the door, speaking to the room.

"You always know what to say." She whispered with a wondering smile, before being rushed away.

* * *

The programs all read that Elissa would be played by Carlotta Guidacelli. Since she had walked out so near the performance date, there obviously hadn't been time to change them. When the announcement was made before the curtain went up about the change in cast, the audience was filled with low murmurs, with everyone wondering if a last-minute replacement could ever be equal to the Guidacelli name. 

They stopped wondering. Christine blew them away. Throughout the triumphant welcome of Hannibal to Carthage, she performed with all the majesty the role demanded – not that she could have done anything less in the extravagant costume – but still managed to exude a grace that earned her their admiration as opposed to demanding it. She had the audience captivated, her voice alternately enchanting them with its sweetness and rising with a power that could only be described as angelic. There was not a soul gathered in the entire opera house that did not fall under her spell – including the rather reluctant Luciana Guidacelli who had originally come in at the last minute to gloat over seeing the Ravelle fail without her daughter, but had found herself wishing she had instead secured a better seat.

During the second act as she sang with Piangi, her voice harmonised perfectly with the young tenor and the beauty of the love the two characters exchanged had many of the audience reaching for their handkerchiefs.

But it was the third act where Christine triumphed. Since her first song, those who knew anything about the opera had been waiting with bated breath for the famous aria of the final act. It was where Elissa sang to her departed amour, pledging her continuing love even if she should be forgotten. It pushed aside all the pomp and circumstance of everything that had gone before which embodied the Queen of Carthage, and instead focussed on the natural beauty of the woman that was Elissa. Christine was stunning in a very full-skirted gown of white that was off the shoulder and had a fairly low neckline. Her hair was allowed to cascade in a soft golden waterfall down her back, but was kept off her face by clips that made her look like she had stars in her hair – very fitting for the night time setting. She had them hanging on every note as she sang.

"Think of me think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. Remember me once in a while – please promise me you'll try.

"When you find that, once again, you long to take your heart back and be free – if you  
ever find a moment, spare a thought for me."

She began sweetly, tenderly, allowing herself to be carried away as the music grew into a beautiful crescendo, before fading to let her voice carry the melody once more.

"We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea – but if you can still remember stop and think of me . . .

"Think of all the things we've shared and seen – don't think about the things which might have been . . .

"Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned. Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind.

"Recall those days look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do – there will never be a day, when I won't think of you . . ."

Her voice soared, not allowing the orchestra's crescendo to hide her this time. As her voice rose, so did the applause – and the recognition. Raoul sat up straighter in the box reserved for the patrons. Was this really Christine? This stunning woman who had commanded the stage and now lit up the entire theatre with her graceful presence and exquisite voice? Was this the timid, gawkish young girl who had not even been able to face him in a quiet corridor? Did the girl who had run about, falling into the sea and sand with every other step, did she now stand on the stage bewitching the hearts and minds of all who were privileged to see her? Had she remembered him, or was she only being polite before? He certainly remembered her now.

"We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea – but please  
promise me, that sometimes you will think" she took a quick breath, readying herself for the difficult trill of notes, "of me!" and managed expertly as though such a thing were as natural to her as breathing.

The audience erupted, and even though it wasn't yet the appropriate time for it, she still received a standing ovation.

As the opera finished, most of the audience didn't know whether to applaud or cry. They soon made their minds up however, as the place erupted into a thunderous applause that would have made passers by think there was an earthquake. When it came to taking bows, Christine was on the stage a full five minutes receiving praise before the audience allowed her to leave.

When she did, it was to be surrounded to the point of being smothered by just about every member of staff, every student and well-wisher, not to mention a few people who probably shouldn't have been backstage, all congratulating her on her performance. She didn't recognise half of them and tried to smile politely and acknowledge everyone who spoke to her, without giving in to the sense of drowning that it inspired. Eventually, she made her way through them all and hurried down a corridor that was empty. Not knowing where exactly she was, or caring, she leaned her head back and let everything sink in – as much as it could.

"Thank you, Father." She whispered to the darkness, believing within her heart that her simple prayer was heard. It had been the shared wish of both her parents to see her perform on stage as she had just done. It was not a dream they had ever pushed onto her, but she was a child of Music and had soon developed that dream by herself, so they had all worked towards that end. At last their hopes had finally come into fruition. If only they had been there amongst those congratulating her, the evening would have been perfect. But she knew they'd been watching, and that they were proud, just like her Angel had said.

Her Angel.

Would he be waiting for her? What had he thought? As with every time she thought of him, all else faded away and suddenly she was not certain of her performance anymore. What if-

"_Brava, Brava, Bravissima._"

The deep voice whispered through the air, echoing all around her. She looked about; trying to find him, knowing it was useless. She calmed down though. He approved, and had voiced his approval at just the right time – as always. She was soon brought out of her reverie by Meg who approached her, touching her arm delicately.

"Where have you been hiding? You were perfect. So come on, spill; who's the new teacher? Gardiner couldn't have done that, even with you." Christine smiled.

"Do you remember what I told you of Father's stories, the tales of the North, of the Angel of Music? Father promised him to me, and I used to dream of him. It was Papa's promise that kept me going those first few months after . . . He's here, Meg. He's always watching, always with me, my heavenly genius."

"Christine, have you been dreaming? This isn't like you. You know they were just stories." Meg replied, half-smiling nervously.

"He's been watching over me, looking after me. But he's such a strange angel: he always stays in the shadows. If only . . ." Christine continued, retreating into something of a daze.

"What 'Angel'? Christine your hands are cold." Meg said, now getting seriously worried. Christine felt an all-too familiar chill in the air.

"He's with me, even now." She whispered.

"Your face is white."

"He's all around me." She continued realising that perhaps he might be displeased that she had spoken so freely with Meg, who put her arm around Christine.

"Don't be frightened." Christine snapped out of it and looked at Meg, then hugged her back. She soon returned to the joy of the evening, Meg's exuberance swiftly saw to that. The two girls made their way to Christine's dressing room. Meg wasn't allowed to admire it for long, as Madame Giry bustled her out quickly, along with the admirers that were flocking to the door, having spied the new Diva. She turned to Christine who was stood in the middle of the ornate room, looking as though she didn't know quite what to do with herself. Antoinette picked something up from the dressing table and offered it to Christine.

"You did well tonight, child. He is pleased with you."

Christine looked at her second mother in shock. They had exchanged many glances and silent conversations about the ghost and her constant disappearances, but never had the older woman said or done anything to indicate that she actually knew the identity of her mysterious tutor. She accepted the crimson rose and fingered the black ribbon tied around the stem, its familiarity granting her the comfort she needed. Antoinette saw the look in Christine's eyes and left her to her thoughts – and to change.

Christine sat down at the dressing table, overwhelmed with the host of new memories that had been created this night. Her first real full-scale performance and she had been the lead at the Ravelle. The audience had adored her. Her parents' wish had been granted, as had hers. And her Angel was pleased with her.

"Little Lotte." Christine's head whipped around to the door and the young man who now stood with his back pressed against it, "You didn't call."

"I know. I'm sorry, Raoul. Things are kind of crazy around here." _To put it lightly_.

"I thought you'd forgotten. I thought we'd lost all those memories." He moved towards her as he went on. "Remember when we'd have picnics in the attic on rainy afternoons, eating too much chocolate and listening to the sea?"

"Or the old stories of the North? Or Papa playing his violin?" Christine smiled down at the boy crouched before her.

"Oh, I've missed those days." Raoul answered, taking her in a hug. Christine smiled, relishing the friend she thought she'd lost to time. She frowned a little though, thinking of what her Angel had said about him. If he was watching, he wouldn't be pleased. But wait, maybe there was a way.

"Do you remember those stories of the North, Raoul?"

"Of course. How could I forget my Little Lotte?" _How indeed?_ Perhaps if she could make him remember, remember all that she was, he could understand what she'd become and then he wouldn't prove to be the distraction her Angel feared.

"Do remember the stories of the Angel of Music?"

"You used to joke that he had to have visited your parents." He smiled indulgently. She frowned. She had never been joking when she'd said that.

"Papa said that when he was in heaven, he would send the Angel of Music to me. Papa's in heaven, Raoul, and I have been visited by an Angel."

"I don't doubt it. You sounded like an Angel tonight. I can only hope the Ravelle will be worthy of you. But enough, you need to get changed. I'm taking you out to dinner to celebrate your wonderful debut." He said, getting up and heading to the door.

"No, Raoul. The Angel is very strict-" He laughed. He actually laughed!

"I won't keep you out late. Besides, as the newest patron, I feel it my solemn duty to look after our brightest star. Ten minutes, Little Lotte." He said with a wink that made her feel slightly uncomfortable, before he left.

"Things have changed, Raoul." Christine replied, thinking of Little Lotte. That girl had been lost long ago. She'd died in the same fire that killed her father. It looked like the boy she had played with was gone too.

Christine sighed wearily and rose. She did need to change anyway. She got down to the corset and shift – the costume version being much prettier than the practice one: silken and embroidered – when she felt a rapid drop in temperature. Putting on a light robe, she stepped out from behind the screen. It was then that she noticed that the room was lit not with the usual soft glow from a small chandelier, but with dozens of candles scattered around, and they were all simultaneously dimming. Anxiously, she tried the door handle but it wouldn't move. And the key was not in the lock.

Her breathing quickened. She was trapped in the darkness. Her only light was coming from the flames. And her Angel was angry.

"Fool, presuming to share in your glory with his ignorance, stealing the power of my triumph!" The voice hissed, reverberating around and filling the room completely as he called out in bitter anger. Christine's eyes darted frantically, her back suddenly pressed against the door, trying to think of what could calm him.

"Angel, forgive me. He's gone now. He could never diminish the power of your music. It was you who gave my voice wing tonight, you who I sang for. He could not take that away."

Was it her imagination, or did the air warm a little? Whether it was the case or not, she was relieved as that wonderful voice returned her pleas softly, deeply, in a caress that was barely a breath away from being musical. The voice seemed to come from all corners of the room.

"No king could ask for a richer gift. Too long have you been consigned to these walls, too long has your song been lost to an audience that can never appreciate Music. Too long have we stayed in the shadows." What on earth did he mean? Was she finally to meet her Angel? Rapture and anxiety warred inside her, leaving her dazed at the ferocity of their conflict. She focused on the words echoing around her that finally began to sound like they were coming from in front of her.

"Come, my rose," she instinctively obeyed, "come to me; let me show you the true beauty of Music." Her angel's voice softened even further as he drew her in.

Her feet moved of their own accord, taking her nearer to the mirror. With each step, her reflection faded and another image began to take its place. At first it was just an oddly familiar white shape that became one half of a face. A man's face! A man cloaked in black. Were she not already under her Angel's spell, the shock would have registered on her face. As it was, all she could do was move forward, her only conscious thought being that this was her Angel.

Her Angel.

His voice continued: the sound so gentle yet commanding, so beautiful yet overwhelming; it stirred her in a way that had long been forgotten, and yet was completely new. She could feel the music in the air, almost as surely as she could feel the breath in her lungs. Her senses were drowning in it, but it was not her Angel's music, nor was it one she had heard before.

It was theirs.

All that they had worked for, all that they had hoped was finally coming true. Her Angel was before her, waiting, welcoming. Her Angel was before her at last and the Music had finally returned: finally she felt whole. The nearer she drew to him, the more she heard the melody of his spell weaving its way around her mind, into her heart and soul.

So lost was she in the music that surrounded her and the figure before her eyes that she did not see the glass slide almost invisibly away. She did not hear Raoul pounding on the door, demanding to know who was with her, calling out to her, his angel. All she saw was the hand encased in black leather that was held out to her. She hesitated a moment, uncertain until she looked into a pair of eyes that she had never seen before, but that nevertheless completed the enchantment.

She put her hand in the offered one.

She was his.

* * *

**AN: (ducks oncoming missiles) I know, I know: I'm evil. I will get the next chapter written as soon as I can (see, I'm not _that_ evil). Thanks for reading. Nedjmet.**


	49. Chapter 48

**Author's Note: Thanks to Squealing Lit. Fan, Spectralprincess, mildetryth, CarolROI, jeevesandwooster, Rose of Night, jtbwriter, steelelf, Aisalynn, montaquecat, Busanda and mikabronxgirl for their latest reviews. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

**AN: PS, this is the new and (hopefully) improved version of the chapter, if you're reading it for the second time. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Chapter 48 

She was his.

Her hand slipped into the soft, cool leather as she was pulled from the warm room into the darkness that enveloped him. She saw the candles and in her haziness of mind, thought them to be moving apart solely to allow the two of them to pass down the corridor that opened before them.

Looking at the figure leading her down this foreign path, she met his gaze. She should have been looking into the eyes of a stranger, but instead her mind was filled with a sense of familiarity. She felt the music of this man as surely as she felt his hand keeping a tight hold of hers and she longed for it to truly unite with her own. So her voice was drawn from her once more as she wondered at the man, the Ghost, her masked Angel.

"In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came . . . that voice which calls to me and speaks my name . . . And do I dream again? For now I find the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside my mind . . ."

She saw him frown almost imperceptibly as she called him Phantom. He had taken one of the torches and used it to light their path. Answering, echoing her song with one of his own, with that voice that she would know anywhere, he granted her wish and proved that she was not dreaming.

"Sing once again with me our strange duet . . . My power over you grows stronger yet . . . And though you turn from me, to glance behind, the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside your mind . . ."

She smiled as he sang, but could not help looking away as he mentioned the power he held. Though he maintained a firm but gentle grip on her hand, he constantly looked back at her, so that she always saw the vaguely familiar white mask. He truly was inside her mind, something which highlighted a reality of her situation she had never before seen. She pondered it as he led her deeper into the darkness she otherwise feared.

"Those who have seen your face draw back in fear . . . I am the mask you wear . . ."

"It's me they hear . . ." Their voices blended together in a perfect unison.

"Your/My spirit and my/your voice, in one combined: the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside my/your mind . . ."

What was this power he held over her? The old doubts surfaced briefly, swirling around in her mind: he's there, the Phantom of the Opera . . . beware the Phantom of the Opera . . . She could not keep one of them from slipping past her lips.

"He's there the Phantom of the Opera . . ."

He answered her, justifying himself through the song she had begun, the music which kept her by his side, the music that kept them as one.

"In all your fantasies, you always knew that man and mystery . . ."

". . . were both in you . . ." she finished the sentence, hazily acknowledging that which had been reconciled earlier, to some degree.

"And in this labyrinth, where night is blind, the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside my/your mind . . ." Again, their voices became as one, united in a music solely of their making. Again, she was completely under his wing as he helped her into a black boat waiting on a dark, misty lake; both of which seemed to have materialised by magic.

A note of trepidation must have entered her voice, for she was immediately commanded.

"Sing, my Angel of Music!" She obeyed, unable to resist his command or the music that had only just been discovered. Her voice took on a daring intensity she had never before known, rising higher and higher each time he bid her sing for him. And as she obeyed, they drew near to a cavern that was lit by hundreds of candles, until finally she reached her pinnacle and the boat came to a stop.

Her masked ferryman jumped out, swept his cloak from his shoulders and faced her. The music had ceased. She looked at the stranger once more, filled with fear as she suddenly realised she didn't know this man, yet she had allowed him to bring her to this dark place. He returned her gaze, looking at her reverently before speaking.

"Welcome, to the seat of sweet Music's throne." She looked around, marvelling at the beauty of the place. He had moved away to a large organ, which he now faced with his back to her. It soon became clear why as he sang.

"I have brought you to this place where words run dry, where all must pay homage to music . . . music . . ." He faced her again, having found his courage.

"In your mind, you must know that I need you, to serve me, to sing, and now you are here, it is time to begin our music . . . our music . . ." The words should have frightened her, but they excited her instead. Only her Angel spoke like that: to the very depths of her soul. Only her Angel could inspire her music. Seeing her silent response, he continued, his voice softening into the most enchanting of melodies, showing her what it was he spoke of.

"Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation . . . Darkness stirs and wakes imagination . . . Silently the senses abandon their defences . . ." He had returned to stand before her, holding out his hand. Her defences had gone long ago; she didn't need them with her Angel by her side. Confidently, she reached up and took his hand, allowing her to climb out of the boat and draw near, a look of awe on his face. As he continued, she mirrored that sentiment in her own features.

"Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour . . . Grasp it, sense it – tremulous and tender . . ."

He beckoned her forward and she looked around once more. He touched her chin, bringing her head back to face him.

"Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light – and listen to the music of the night . . ." He left her side and moved to the organ again.

"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams! Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before! Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar! And you'll live as you've never lived before . . ." She obeyed, longing to leave behind all the sorrow of the life she had led, longing to surrender this darkness he spoke of that could soothe her soul and allow her spirit to take wing; to give in completely to the music. Her eyes opened with this final promise as he moved forward to take her hand again.

"Softly, deftly, music shall surround you . . . Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you . . ." He knew! No one else understood that which was at the very fibre of her being. His breath was on her face, he was so close. "Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness which you know you cannot fight – the darkness of the music of the night . . ."

She surrendered. He circled the organ. It was all she could do to obey his silent command, to remain still and allow the music to swell. All she wanted was him by her side.

"Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world! Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before! Let your soul take you where you long to be!"

His voice rose in a magnificent crescendo, and with each instruction she silently gave in, though the ideas were overwhelming. His voice quietened and he drew near to her as he explained, "Only then can you belong to me . . ." His hands touched her face, oh! how she longed for him to move closer still. In that moment, she would have done anything for him to kiss her. But he did better: turning her so her back was pressed against him, his hands moving down her body in the most wonderful, burning caresses, though not taking any liberties.

"Floating, falling, sweet intoxication!" He took her hand and brought it up to the unmasked side of his face. She was drowning in that ecstasy he sang of.

"Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation! Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write – the power of the music off the night . . ."

He drew her forward as he showed her his kingdom. She looked around in amazement, hearing the music swelling as though played by an invisible, heavenly orchestra at her Angel's command. He smiled at her as he brought her forward and around one of the curtains. She could not help but return the smile. He was her Angel. He was hers! He looked past her and she followed his gaze. As she saw the mannequin veiled in white, her face fell. It was of a perfect bride. It was her. Perfect. This was what he saw. This was what he wanted. He demanded perfection from her music and now he was seeking the same perfection from her. The expectations, the knowledge that she could only disappoint him overwhelmed her with pain. The accuracy of the mannequin disturbed her mind. The full reality of the situation came flooding back, exhausting her in every way once more and she fainted. She barely registered the feel of two strong arms lifting her before she slipped into unconsciousness.

As she drifted off, she could have sworn she heard an Angel's voice pleading,

"You alone can make my song take flight – help me make the music of the night . . ."

* * *

He had ruined it. He had rushed her and spoilt it all. It could have been the most wondrous night, with her finally by his side, the two of them lost in music. But instead he had thought . . . 

When she had taken his hand, he been filled with joy and a sense of pride; he had brought this wonderful creature into such a trust with him that the Angel had given herself over to the demon. He had had to keep looking back at her to make sure she was real, she was there, but her eyes had not left him for a moment. They had had to move quickly, for he could hear that _boy_ beating against her door, as though he were worthy to gain entrance. But she had ignored the insolent pup, and been focussed solely on him.

She had not hesitated a moment. There had been doubts, for she had looked back, but she had followed him and sung as he commanded. Her voice had surely risen from even these depths to touch the very heavens. Though she had given him her performance at the gala, it had been nothing to the music she had given to him as he ferried them towards his lair.

He had hardly spoken a word, only sung. So long as he used his voice wisely, she would remain captivated. It worked. She had hung on to his every note as though his music was the very air she breathed. Was it possible? He had tried to woo her to the darkness that she so feared, to bring her away from what she knew and show her the world he could lay at her feet if only she would let him.

She had let him. It had taken every scrap of self-control to keep from kissing her at that moment. He had felt her breathing deepen and become rapid as he had guided her hand to touch his face. Would that it had continued. But not tonight. Tonight had been about releasing her soul from the confines of the world above. He had sought to win her trust and her favour and had delighted when she had looked to bestow it.

She had been so responsive, so alive because of him that he could not resist showing her his creation, his gift to her, his deepest hope. And she had fainted. It was not the first time a woman had fainted because of him, but it was the first time it had truly hurt. Once again, he found her in his arms; only this time was painful where the last had been ecstasy. He had rushed her, it had been too soon. The performance must have been taxing; he had overwhelmed her senses with music and then thrust _that_ upon her. But surely he had not mistaken the desire that had been written across her features as she drank in his music. The intoxication he had sung of had not been felt by him alone. And now he had ruined it. The final caress he had given her before drawing the curtains down he had been unable to resist – she was so beautiful! And it had kept him from lying beside her, continuing to hold her. Perhaps one day she would accept a caress from his ungloved hand.

He had been working solidly since he had left her, searching the deepest recesses of his mind for the music that would ease her fears and bring her back to him once more. If she cried or screamed and demanded her freedom when she woke, he would not blame her. She had called him 'Phantom', and rightly so: he was a ghost, a spectre, a demon; and what right had a demon to claim a seraph? But he had to try. He could not lose his Angel now that he had finally had a sweet taste of Heaven.


	50. Chapter 49

**Author's Note: Go on, have a double update. You did send me all those lovely reviews after all. Thanks, and enjoy! Nedjmet.** **AN: PS, this is the new and (hopefully) improved version of the chapter, if you're reading it for the second time. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Chapter 49

She woke to the sound of a soft, tinny little melody playing. She was lying on a bed of red silk draped in black curtains. The music appeared to be coming from a box with a little Persian monkey sat on it, playing cymbals as it rocked slightly. What was this place? Was she still dreaming? She saw a tassel hanging down and pulled it. The curtains rose. Looking around she found herself to be in what looked like a cave.

It started coming back to her.

The fog in her mind began to lift, like the mist on the lake. The lake? How could there have been a lake? As she remembered it, she climbed from the bed and moved forward, seeing it again.

She saw the candles that lit everything. How was it that the candles had not bothered her? Her gaze was led down to the boat, bobbing on the water. The black boat, driven by the dark figure who had held her hand almost every step of the way down. Who was the man who had brought her to this place, wherever it was? How was this possible?

She glanced round and saw him. She looked at the black shape bent over the organ. He turned to face her even though she had not made a sound, and she was struck once more by the startling white mask that hid half of his face. He turned back to the organ quickly. Was he afraid of her?

She slowly moved to his side.

Was this her angel, or the Ghost? Did he know about her face and wore the mask to show that? Or was he mocking her, triumphing over the fact that he had brought her here, showing the power he held? Surely not, or he would not respond to her touch that way, as though he were drinking it in – the same way she had responded to his own touch.

She put her hand on his shoulder before moving it to gently caress the left side of his face, silently asking the question she daren't voice, gathering her courage. He closed his eyes as though enraptured, tilting his head up. Was he granting her permission? He had brought her here, said they had stayed in the shadows for too long. Was he trusting her so much in return for the faith she had shown in him?

She lifted the white leather.

* * *

He had left the music box playing by her side. It had often soothed him, and if she awoke to its gentle sound, perhaps she would not be so startled. He heard her approaching, no doubt wondering at all that had happened. As soon as he thought she was within sight, he turned to look at her. Even though she had just awoken, she was still beautiful – achingly so. He turned away, unable to bear any accusatory stares should she remember all that he had done. What could he say to her? He had no music with which to charm her now, and she was probably too aware for that anyway. All the while she had slept, he had thought over this moment where he stood to lose her, where she would leave him, abandon him for betraying her this way. He was only a man after all – not even that: he was barely even half a man. 

She was steadily coming nearer to him, of her own volition. He closed his eyes, unable to risk seeing the disappointment in hers. She put her hand on his shoulder. She was touching him! Still he could not meet her eyes. Her soft hand caressed his face as gently as she had his gifts to her. So this was what heaven was like, for surely there could be no greater happiness than this. Her other hand ran along the right side of his forehead. He thought he could stay this way forever.

Until he felt the cool air where the leather should have been.

His hand flew to the flesh he tried so desperately to keep hidden, the face used to terrify others into submission, the monstrosity which his Hope had cruelly revealed after taking him to a hitherto unknown state of bliss. His anger shoved her away at the betrayal. Crying out wordlessly, he began cursing her.

"Damn you! You prying little fool!" Towering over her as she lay quivering on the floor, he continued railing. "Why did _you_ have to be like the rest? Is this what you wanted to see?" He yanked down a cover that hid one of the few mirrors in the place, looking at the sight. It enraged him further and he raised his hand again, returning to continue his rant against her. "Look, Christine, look! You wanted to see the demon, and now you cannot ever be free." He could not bear to see her flinching away from him so he moved away, knocking an offending candle stand from out of his path.

"Damn you . . . Curse you . . ." How could he not find the will to stay angry at her when he had killed men for the same offence? Because he could not lose her, and yet he feared he had just done exactly that. He gave a melody to his speech, thinking to calm her, even though the notes sounded forced and laboured. She always succumbed to his voice; perhaps this would be no different, perhaps . . .

"Stranger than you dreamt it – can you even dare to look or bear to think of me: this loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven, secretly . . . secretly . . ." He began approaching her, although keeping his distance as she watched at him warily. He looked at the mannequin, the embodiment of all his hopes; all lost. Or were they?

He sang with a new intensity, trying to express the conviction he felt, "But, Christine . . . Fear can turn to love," he could not look into those weeping eyes when they were filled with pity, so even as he continued, he looked away, "you'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster: this repulsive carcass, who seems a beast, but secretly dreams of beauty, secretly . . . secretly . . . Oh, Christine . . ."

Giving up, her name was the only prayer he could offer now. Once again, she held his heart in her hands. He reached out one of his own for the cursed mask, silently begging her to end his torment and the nightmare they had descended into. The nightmare he had dreaded from the first.

* * *

The flesh was twisted, distorted, reddened and scarred, extending from past his hair line down to his chin. The deformed side was so bad that it could barely be called part of a face. It was made all the more horrific because the left half was so handsome. The scarred side was so much like her father's had been that it brought tears to her eyes. 

These thoughts barely had chance to cross her mind though as he flung her to the ground in an outrage. Towering over her cursing, his angelic voice turned demonic with the ferocity he now used to upbraid her and she could not help the tremors of fear that ran through her body.

He could not even stand the sight of his own reflection. What had she done? Who was this man who now held her? He began to sing.

He was her Angel.

The man who could not approach her now, who had frightened her, was the same man she had willingly followed down into this strange new world, who she would have given anything to if he had only continued with his gentle but burning caresses last night.

He stood looking at something. She knew it was the mannequin that had made her faint. She had hurt him cruelly, no: she had violated him and yet he still sang to her of . . . love. Gustave had been right. The man who sat before her, cursing himself now, his anger having turned against his own pitiable state which she had shared in until only recently, the man who sang in earnest and yet with hopelessness: he was her Angel. And she had failed him. Her tears fell freely.

He held his hand out slightly, pleading for his mask, his protection from the world's prying eyes – from her. She reached for it. Her angel looked at her out of the corner of his left eye, broken; and by her doing. Denying him, she instead placed her hand in his. He jerked it away as though burned and she lowered her eyes, ashamed. Rising to her feet she moved a few small steps nearer; he turned his back to her, shrinking further into himself. Carefully, she placed the mask by his side and then crouching down, wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her right cheek against his back. He stiffened. Was she so unwelcome now, in spite of his words? Had she hurt him so deeply? Yet she still had to ask.

"Forgive me, my Angel." She whispered into the stillness.

* * *

Her hand touched his. What new torment was this? He pulled away from the contact against his own wishes. What right had a monster to touch her? The rejection made her shy away. Fool! He had only frightened her more as she had been reaching out to him. Damn the habits this curse had instilled in him over the years! 

As she rose, he had not the strength to look at her, could not watch her walk away from him. The mask lay at his side – she was a good girl, even through the terror he had caused. Just as he was reaching for it, he froze, every muscle tensing as he felt her arms wrap around his chest. She had pressed herself against him, moulding her soft, delicate frame to his back. He closed his eyes, enraptured. How could she bear to touch him after he had repelled her so violently? Was she not afraid?

She asked for his forgiveness.

_She_ asked for _his_ forgiveness when he should be the one begging her for the chance to atone for his actions. The first words she had spoken to him since she had been free from his music's spell, and they had been for forgiveness – for his sake? He finally put the mask back on his face, feeling somewhat more at ease with the familiar shield in place. Still he could feel her arms secured gently around him, a dampness seeping through his long black coat. Was she crying for him? He reached down and took one of her small pale hands. No gloves this time; he was allowed to feel the smooth skin against his own. Releasing himself from the sacred embrace of the angel, he turned slowly to face her. Her face was awash with tears and her eyes pleaded with him to grant her pardon. Bowing his head he dared to press a gentle kiss on the hand he held. When he looked up again, she was staring at him, awestruck – much the same way she had last night. Was it possible . . . did he dare dream that he did not need music to captivate her, to claim her . . . to keep her?

He had to take her back. If he released her now, she might not resent him. She might return without feeling duty bound. And she would have one less reason to fear him. He stood and moved away a few steps, gathering every ounce of self-control he had to say the words that would end this sweet madness.

"Come we must return – those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you."

* * *

She couldn't move as he put his cloak on. He had been impeccably dressed when he had brought her here: he had had hope. Now, he was more dishevelled, and with one stupid action that she would not have forgiven anyone had they done it to her, she had crushed him. She was such a fool! How could she have thought he was giving her permission to remove the mask? They'd only just met! 

But they hadn't.

Finally, she got up from the ground as he stood beside the boat, waiting silently for her. She couldn't meet his eyes for fear of what lay within the steely blue depths.

He helped her back into the boat with the same gentleness he had used to draw her out. Their journey was silent. As he drew her along the dark corridors, he held her hand, though not with the familiarity of last night. The music was silent now in the face of the chasm between them – a cold, black void which she had created – and without its soothing distractions, she felt that darkness closing in on her. Instinctively, she tightened her grip on her Angel's hand. He looked back at her then and realising what the matter was, moved the torch he held so that she could see it. It didn't help as he had hoped, since he did not realise the extent to which she feared the flames. That he had recognised her fear and tried to comfort her leant her hope and she again kept her eyes on him; this time it was the unmasked side of his face that she could see.

He put the torch in a sconce, and Christine knew that they were nearing her dressing room. The candles had gone out in that final corridor, but the light was on in her room, so she finally calmed down properly. They stopped and her guide looked back at her before dropping her hand and opening the mirror. He stepped back against the wall, silently allowing her to leave. She cast a few quick glances at him as she stepped past towards her sanctuary.

She stopped on the threshold and turned back to him.

He met her gaze with confusion. Did she not want to be free, to be rid of him?

"Please, don't let me leave if you are still angry with me. Let me have your forgiveness."

He had thought her silence was because she was so upset with him; instead it was directed at herself? He considered her words: according to them, so long as he remained angry, he could keep her by his side. Tempting. One look at her face though, and he knew again that his anger had melted away almost as soon as it had begun.

"You have my forgiveness." He answered softly. She gave him a nervous half-smile.

"I will see you again?" She asked; putting all the hope she could into the question. He looked at her, dumbfounded, before slowly nodding. Her face lit up fully this time. She turned towards the dressing room with a much lighter heart, before rejoining her dark companion one last time and pressing a soft, hesitant kiss against the cool leather of his mask. She shyly met his eyes, willing him to trust her again.

Finally, she withdrew, stepping back into the room and looking around with a small sigh of content. She saw a burst of red on the floor and kneeling down; picked up the rose he had gifted her with. Turning around, she was shocked to see her own reflection. She hurried a few steps towards the mirror that had been shut, before realising that he wasn't gone: she could still feel his presence. Smiling, and not lowering her eyes from where she thought his might be, she pressed a kiss to the delicate petals, hoping he would understand.

A knock on the door startled her from the silent conversation. The atmosphere changed, and she knew he had left. The lock clicked in the door and Madame Giry entered, closing it behind her. She looked at the daughter of her heart carefully.

"Are you well?" Christine looked at her in bewildered astonishment. Had she known?

"I am well." She whispered.

"Then perhaps you ought to finish changing."

She did not leave, even when Christine stepped behind the screen. Looking towards the mirror, she could not help but wonder what had happened. The tear stains on Christine's face were unmistakeable, but she did not look upset. There was much she wanted to ask, if only she was not bound by so many promises of secrecy. She could only hope Christine would choose to confide in her; and as always, she could only hope that whatever happened, all would be well.

* * *

When Giry had knocked on the door, he had hurried away, remembering his promise. He had stopped once he reached the lake, having neither the physical strength nor the presence of mind to guide the boat home at the moment. She wanted to see him again? He could not believe it, yet by her own lips it was true. 

Her lips.

She had kissed him! If only he was not forced by necessity to wear this cursed mask, he would have known her kiss on the twisted flesh that had barely even known a woman's glance. He briefly thought she was mocking him, but her trusting gaze had soon dispelled that. After everything he had done, she remained devoted to him, as she proved with his rose.

She was his.


	51. Chapter 50

**Author's Note: Thanks to mildetryth, steelelf (double thanks), Shayril, montaquecat (double thanks), Aisalynn, jtbwriter, Busanda, mikabronxgirl, Mystery Guest (mega thanks for a mega review), Lady Winifred, Marie Phantom, TalithaJ, Spectralprincess (double thanks) and Rose of Night for their latest reviews.**

**Word of warning: I'm going away next week so there won't be any updates from Saturday. Plus, I have a lot of preparation to do for it, and a graduation ceremony coming up, so I may not be updating as regularly as you'd like. I will try, but if nothing appears, you now know why. Rest assured, I won't be abandoning this story.**

**Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 50

Carlotta was seething. The Dean was worried. The managers were panicking. Raoul was frantic.

After hearing that strange voice coming from inside Christine's dressing room, and finding the door locked, Raoul had gone straight to the managers. Upon great persuasion, they had tracked down someone who could get into the room, only to find it empty. Raoul had had to satisfy their scepticism that yes, Christine had been in there and yes, he had definitely heard a man's voice coming from inside.

Firmin and Andre had left, assuring their young patron that she had probably gone to look after her costume or greet a few well-wishers, and would no doubt return soon. A few hours later, when there was still no sign of her, he had called them in again, reporting that their lead soprano was still missing. Thoughts of the ghost flashed across the managers' minds; Raoul began to wonder if perhaps there had been something in it when Christine had mentioned her 'angel'. He had thought that perhaps she'd had a dream, and coupled with her vocal teacher who was obviously doing a good job, she'd assumed it had been an angel – she did have a strong belief in such things when they were little; to her, they hadn't simply been stories. They had all gone home, resolved to call the police if she still hadn't turned up the next morning. Raoul hadn't gotten all that much sleep.

The next morning, Firmin and Andre returned to the theatre, extremely put out.

_My dear gentlemen,_

_The orchestra was a shambles; I sincerely doubt the first violinist understands the concept of group performances. The second cello ought to be told that rosin is to be used on a bow; the lead bassoon was consistently off key. Does the Ravelle no longer advocate tuning before a performance is given? I can not allow such imbeciles in my Opera House._

_As for those on stage, your ballet mistress has already received my recommendations. The chorus is in dire need of training; far too many of them were straining for notes beyond their calibre. Piangi needs to learn that whilst swaggering about the stage like a buffoon is acceptable in pantomime, this is opera. And he really ought to watch his weight. A rotund tenor does often find himself limited in terms of the parts he receives._

_Miss Daaë was, in a word, sublime. I recommend she continue in the role of Elissa, unless you wish the Ravelle to be ridiculed henceforth. Having tasted heaven, no audience is likely to accept the barnyard's offerings._

_One final note: my salary has yet to be paid. You will find the entry in your accounts. No one likes a debtor, gentleman. I trust my orders will be obeyed in future._

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G._

The note had been left in their office, placed neatly on one of the desks. It was a white piece of paper with black trim, the large blood red skull lending it a singularly ominous air. It was the same as the others had been.

"Who the blazes is this 'O.G.'? We cannot let ourselves be ordered around by some prankster!" Firmin exclaimed.

"And what sort of ghost needs a salary?" Andre returned. They looked over the note again.

"I suppose he does have a point about the lead." Andre ventured. "She was very good"

"How are we supposed to turn down the daughter of Luciana Guidacelli? We'd risk losing her support, and what the Deanery would think about that, I do not know"

"I do. They'd sack us without thinking." Andre conceded. "Suppose we guaranteed Carlotta the lead in the next production. Walking out is frowned on by the old boys, so she can hardly expect any role in Hannibal"

"That might work. Although I think it best if the board were to decide exactly how to deal with that situation." Firmin conceded, not particularly wanting to face either of the Guidacellis again. His partner agreed.

"Where is she?" Raoul stormed into their office.

"Carlotta?" Andre asked, that girl having been the most recent on their minds.

"Christine Daaë, where is she? Have you heard anything"

"No, not a word." Andre replied.

"But we've only just arrived ourselves. No doubt we'll hear something soon." Firmin interjected, taking the boy's arm and guiding him to a chair. It wouldn't do to risk losing two patrons in one day.

"Then you didn't send me this note?" He asked, holding out a very familiar looking piece of paper, the red skull staring up at the two older gentlemen menacingly. Firmin took it and read,

_I advise against seeing Miss Daaë again; the Angel of Music has taken her under his wing. She no longer belongs to your world and therefore has no need of your concern._

"We didn't send this." He said, facing his partner in bewilderment.

"Then who did? She could be in danger! What does 'she no longer belongs to this world mean'? Is someone hurting her?" Raoul asked panic-stricken.

"Christine is well. She is resting." The three men jumped. They'd been so busy arguing, they hadn't seen Madame Giry come in.

"Can I see her?" Raoul asked eagerly.

"She will see no one, young man. Last night was tiring, and she must rest if she is to be ready for today's performance." This last comment was said more to the managers. They looked at each other, and nodded.

"Yes, we must allow our stars a chance to recover. Do give her our best wishes, Madame, and tell her we're looking forward to another stunning performance"

Typically, each production the Ravelle put on was given three performances done over a long weekend, from Thursday to Saturday, thereby granting them larger audiences and the chance to have everything put back in order for when classes would resume the following Monday. It also gave the students who were able the chance to try out more than one task for each night. It was usually mostly the crew who had this opportunity, as performers – no matter how multi-talented – could rarely be spared to fulfil more than one duty. Plus, switching performers' roles between the nights would mean altering costumes which had to be cleaned and pressed anyway – suffice to say the staff and management knew better than to cross the wardrobe department by even attempting such a thing. Coupled with the fact that Firmin and Andre had been right: the board certainly would not allow Carlotta to be in Hannibal and were considering suspending her for walking out; it all added up to mean that Christine had another two performances to give. Two performances at the Ravelle, in one of the two leading roles, with an incredible opening night to follow up on. Any true performer would have been going over the show, looking at mistakes that needed to be corrected, things that needed to be improved, getting into the feel of the character again.

She wasn't.

Not that Christine wasn't a true performer – far from it – but the show paled in comparison to what had followed. She barely remembered getting home or into bed, she was in that much of a daze; she only remembered staring up at the ceiling, and eventually moving over to sit by the window and drink in the night sky. It didn't seem so frightening now.

_Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour . . . Grasp it, sense it – tremulous and tender . . ._

She smiled, remembering the ecstasy and passion those words had inspired. She always did end up obeying that voice. And now?

She didn't know. The man who had taken her down to those caverns had had her completely enchanted. Part of her had recognised the fact that he was a man, but most of her had been following her Angel, having succumbed to his magic once more. He had shown her the beauty of all that she had doubted or feared; offered a world to her she could not even begin to dream of.

And she had destroyed him.

He had been sat broken before her, unable to look at her where he had previously shown utter devotion. Memories came back of things that she had seen: the drawings of her – so many; the model of the theatre, done with such care and detail – and with her centre stage. Everything had been planned so carefully, so beautifully, and she had ruined it all by betraying him. She had been so consumed with her own thoughts that she had failed to consider his. She thought of the mannequin and shivered – not from the chill coming in through the window. That was how he saw her; it was a picture of his devotion, his admiration . . . his hopes.

Had she put herself beyond his trust, beyond his care by unmasking him?

She started as an idea came to her. Quietly, she slipped down the stairs and into the living room. Opening the desk she took out a sheet of paper and wrote. Carefully, she sealed the note and slipped it into the crack under the stairs, hoping it would be received.

* * *

_My Angel,_

_Please be there tonight. Let me sing for you again._

_Your Christine._

Did she doubt him that much? Every time he had tried to think of her as she had surrendered to his song, each time her face had distorted in his mind until it was that look of horror she had worn as he'd raved at her. She had cowered before him. Grown men had cowered before him, and he had triumphed in his power. Christine had cowered before him and he had wept his first tears in an age.

He looked at the note. She had been singing for him after all. Her voice had risen to the heavens last night . . . and it had all been for him. And he had cursed her, insulted her, and thrown her to the floor. If he'd hurt her, he wouldn't forgive himself. Yet here she was, asking to give him her song again. She hadn't changed her mind. He had been astounded when he'd found it, expecting it to be a missive asking him to leave her alone. Instead, she was renewing her request.

_Your Christine._

She was still his. By her own lips, she needed him, by her own hand, she was still his. Of course he would be there. He would restore her faith in him.

And on the closing night, he would grant her request.

And this time it would not go wrong.


	52. Chapter 51

**Author's Note: Thanks to steelelf, Rose of Night, jtbwriter, WindPhoenix (7x thanks, that's some serious catching up, wow!), mikabronxgirl, Chantal, montaquecat, Marie Phantom, Lady Winifred, mildetryth and Spectralprincess for their latest reviews. OK, I know I now owe a double update. I'll try and do it today, but if I don't, it will be in the next one. And if I don't post tomorrow, it's because I'm graduating. So advanced apologies just in case. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 51

Rehearsals went by much the same as they had the previous day: in a mad dash. Whilst it had been proved that everyone knew their parts, there were still things that needed to be ironed out, and the pressure had increased seeing as they were expected to improve with each performance. The opening night was meant to impress, but it was accepted that these were students who were 'testing the waters' as it were. Christine was having a difficult time; Reyer seemed to be calling her to attention two or three times each scene. When the first intermission came, and they were allowed a break, Reyer sent Christine to her dressing room with strict instructions to get her act together. As she left, she cast yet another hasty glance towards Box 5, and yet again failed to see anything.

She shut the door behind her and sank down onto the couch, her head lowering into her hands, willing her mind to fill with thoughts of _Hannibal_.

"I had thought I'd taught you better than this." Christine opened her eyes to see a pair of black shoes just within her peripheral vision. She raised her head and found her Angel staring down at her, a frown on his face.

He had been watching the rehearsals as usual from his box, and had seen each time that she had looked up at him. He couldn't allow himself to be spotted though. The few rare actual glimpses of the Opera Ghost had, for the most part, been carefully planned and executed. Were he to allow Christine to see him whilst on stage, she might not be the only one, so he had decided to go against his initial resolve, which is why he stood before her now.

"If you cannot focus on the music, how do you expect to feel it, to let it work within you? How can you expect to be a worthy instrument of Music without your concentration? Where was it?"

"It was with you." She answered quietly, not once breaking her gaze. He stared down at her a moment, his features relaxing slightly.

"And will it return to the music?" He asked softly. It wasn't much of a question, seeing as there was only one acceptable answer.

"Yes." Someone knocked on the door. Immediately, he turned to leave. Christine's hand shot out and took his, preventing him from going anywhere. She stood up on her tiptoes and spoke into his left ear to avoid anyone else hearing.

"Thank you for coming." She offered with a smile. He reached up to brush a wayward strand of hair from her face, his hand lingering a few seconds longer than it needed to. A second knock came, Christine turned to the door, inwardly cursing whoever it was. When she turned back, the room was empty of anyone else.

* * *

The last few hours of rehearsals before everyone was ushered away to be dressed and made up for the performance went much better than the first. Christine didn't need correcting once, and everyone's confidence improved greatly. Furtive glances were cast to the rafters every now and again, in case the Ghost should object – they had gotten off to a rocky start, after all – but everything ran smoothly. 

When the performance came, they were playing once more to a full house. Nerves were heightened as the pressure had increased. However, there were not quite so many mistakes early on, thankfully, and Christine triumphed again. She recaptured the majesty of the role perfectly, in spite of being such an otherwise quiet young girl. During the second act as Elissa and Hannibal exchanged their love, she sang with more passion and beauty, far exceeding her performance of last night. As she sang, pledging her fidelity and devotion to the warlord, she looked past Piangi and up to a certain box on the grand tier. The audience was left astounded.

For the final act and the famous aria, Christine did the unthinkable: she put the music out of her mind. Instead, she thought of another music, a kind that was overwhelming, intoxicating, and that went beyond anything Chalumeau could ever have dreamt of: she filled her mind with the Music of the Night, and as she sang _Think of Me, _even the severest of critics could not help but think that her voice must be reaching the very gates of heaven.

It took her longer to get through the crowd back stage at the end, after having received incredible adulation from those in the theatre. Eventually she got back to her dressing room, only to discover that she'd been pressed so much, the make-up on her arm had come off slightly. She looked at the mirror hastily, hoping that he wasn't there just yet. Hurrying over to the dressing table, she took what she needed and went behind the screen to apply it.

She paused before it could touch her skin, however, thinking about what she was doing. She had taken his mask off, exposing what he had tried to hide; and the one way she could show him that she understood, the one way she could let him know that it didn't matter, and she was hiding it. Effectively, she was demanding he give her the privacy she had stolen from him. He was probably the one person she didn't have to hide from, the one who _knew_ what it was like, and she was instinctively refusing to place that trust in him.

The mannequin.

Why couldn't she get that out of her mind? It had been perfect. That was how he saw her. She had let him down too greatly last night; she couldn't let him down now. Perhaps when they'd gotten past that, perhaps there would come a time when she could tell him. She barely noticed the tear tracing its way down her cheek as she again thought of what she had done to her Angel, as she thought of the mask she wore for his sake.

She stepped out from behind the screen, put her things away, and picked up the rose that was lying in its usual place on the dressing table. It hadn't been there when she'd come in. When had he . . .?

"If you continue to excel this way," she whirled around to face the owner of the voice that had spoken into her left ear, "then you will soon have no need of the Ravelle. The world of opera will be at your feet."

"Thank you." She managed to whisper. He was so close! He raised his hand and caught the tear that had made its way to her chin. Ever so gently, he smoothed away the tear track, and holding her head so that she had to meet his eyes, he asked,

"What has upset you?"

"I was thinking about you." His face blanked over and he began to move his hands away. She caught them and held them where they'd been. "I'm so sorry for hurting you, my Angel. I still can't believe I was so thoughtless-" He placed a finger on her lips, silencing her.

"Christine, you are forgiven. Do not distress yourself further." He interrupted swiftly. Softening his voice, he then managed to say with some difficulty, "No one has shown such concern for me for a very long time; it is why I couldn't remain angry with you even if I were to try." They stood together for a while, smiling at each other.

"I suppose I'd better change." Christine eventually whispered. He lowered his hands and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"With today's exceptions I have not set foot in this room since giving it to you, just as I have not set foot in the room you have claimed as yours in the house." He turned to face her. "I have never invaded your privacy Christine. I shall leave while you change." He said with such conviction that she couldn't believe she'd ever doubted his honour.

"How will you know when to come back?"

"I can hear when you come out from behind the screen." So saying, he left her.

Whilst she changed, he wondered on what she had been doing back there before. He had heard someone entering the room as he had approached it, and were it not for the voluminous white skirts of her dress peeking out from the screen, he would have thought that it had merely been another bouquet of flowers arriving. The room had been filled with them after each performance, and no doubt would be again tomorrow. But she had ignored them all except for one: his rose.

Something else had upset her; he knew there was more to it than she had said. Did he still frighten her? As he had held her there, he hadn't seen any trace of that in her eyes, and the tremor in her voice was not a fearful one. But he had caused it nevertheless. Perhaps all his hopes had not been destroyed after all.

Hearing her soft footfall, he risked turning. She was bent over the small mirror again, needlessly – she was never anything less than beautiful, even when she'd tried to hide it. She wore a long sleeved, deep green jumper and black trousers that complemented her figure beautifully without overtly flaunting it. He stepped out from his hiding place and silently went back over to her. He offered his rose, having never done it personally before. She placed her hand on it, but he didn't remove his.

"You came." He was puzzled by this, until he remembered that she had not had the chance to say it before. He allowed himself a smile before explaining,

"I cannot stay, Christine, nor can I ask you to come with me tonight." As her face fell, he elaborated. "There are others who have a claim on your time. I will be here tomorrow."

"I cannot stay after the show tomorrow." She answered. "There is an appointment that I have to keep, and I won't be able to any earlier in the day." It was his turn to look disappointed, though his look was edged with anger. She put her other hand over his. "What if I were to promise, as I love my father, that I will be here the day after?"

"Then I would wait until then." A knock came on the door. Christine rolled her eyes.

"I'm beginning to despise that sound." She again whispered into his ear. He smiled down at her before raising her hand to his lips, this time looking at her as he pressed a kiss on the delicate skin. Her lips parted, her eyes softened, and there was a hitch in her breathing as he lingered there a few moments. As he lowered her hand, he risked running his fingers lightly along her jaw, just as he had done when she'd fainted. She leaned into the caress, willing it to deepen.

On the second knock, he finally departed; she looking after him, watching the mirror open and close – although it was done so seamlessly, she still had no real clue how he disappeared. She eventually opened the door, to be almost knocked over by Meg. Madame Giry and Gustave soon followed, congratulating her on her performance. Gustave and Meg admired her room and the many bouquets that had been sent to her, Meg reading the cards and speculating over the worth of Christine's many admirers. She just smiled, adding non-committal replies as appropriate, all the while holding on to the red rose. Whilst this was lost on Meg, the two adults noticed.

Eventually, Madame ushered everyone out of the room, reminding them that they had dinner reservations. She cast a quick glance to the mirror before shutting the door, making sure there was no one behind it. When Gustave had asked which night he should book a ticket for, she had told him the second. The closing night would be no good, if she knew Christine's habits; the first night . . . she had thought something was going on when she had seen a familiar shadow coming and going along the various passageways of the Institution more often than usual. When she had seen him locking Christine's door, they had exchanged a silent conversation. She realised his intent, and made sure he knew not to do anything foolish, before lowering her eyes in a silent consent. She was not happy that he had kept something else hidden from her regarding Christine, but she had opened the door for this situation, even encouraged it to some extent. Though she knew he would not have done anything untoward, he could easily have done tremendous harm, even if it was unintentional. After Gustave had gone, and Meg had been settled down for the night, she would try and find out what had gone on between the two. Goodness knew she wouldn't get anything out of _him_ on the matter.

They were just leaving the main theatre when they heard someone calling out Christine's name. They turned to see Raoul running towards them. Gustave saw Christine's grip on the rose tighten.

"Good evening, Madame, Miss Giry, Christine."

"Mr. de Chagny. This is a friend of mine, Dr. Gustave Valerius." Raoul shook the proffered hand, following Madame's introduction, his manners impeccable as ever when dealing with his elders.

"If I may, I was hoping to speak with Christine?"

"Very well. I believe we can delay a few minutes." She answered, after looking at the boy carefully. He took Christine's left arm and gently led her nearer to the building, away from the others.

"Christine, I was so worried about you. Where did you go last night?"

"What do you mean?" She asked, removing her arm from his hold.

"I thought we were going to go and celebrate your performance, but when I came back to fetch you, the door was locked and I heard a man's voice inside, even though there was nobody in your dressing room."

"I told you, Raoul, my teacher is very strict."

"But you are free tonight." He observed.

"Yes. I'm having dinner with Madame, Uncle Gustave and Meg." She took a step away, ready to leave when he took hold of her right arm. She tried to hide the wince, and obviously succeeded, because he didn't ask about that.

"Christine, tell me: has something happened? Are you in any kind of trouble? Please, I can help you." She looked at him as though he'd grown a third ear on top of his head.

"What are you talking about now, Raoul?" He showed her the note he'd received. She recognised the paper and knew who it was from. She read it, her face paling.

"I'm not in any trouble, Raoul."

"Then who sent this? Was it your teacher? Or your 'angel' perhaps?"

"Mr. de Chagny, if you'll forgive us, we have a table waiting." Madame Giry interrupted, having seen Christine's discomfort and the piece of paper she'd been handed – not to mention the dark figure that was looking down on the exchange with no small amount of venom. Raoul looked as though he wanted to object, until Christine placed a hand on his arm.

"It's alright, Raoul. I'll talk to you again."

"You promise?"

"I promise." He finally allowed Madame Giry to lead her away, slightly reassured but for the most part disappointed. Who was the man who had called himself her Angel of Music, and what had happened last night? He resolved to find out. He had only just discovered his Little Lotte again, he wasn't about to lose her.

* * *

Antoinette looked at her second daughter before they rejoined Meg and Gustave. Christine eventually met her eyes. One thought passed between them, one promise. 

_We need to talk_.


	53. Chapter 52

**Author's Note: First things first: many many many many apologies for my absence. Looking back, I realised that I only told my reviewers that I was going to be away. Sorry! I was away for a week cooking for 16 people (fun!) and then I had to recover from that before my 21st birthday party, which I am now recovering from. Sorry for the absence, but there aren't any more foreseeable ones on the horizon.**

**Second: thanks to WindPhoenix, Lothiel, Soignante, Rose of Night, jtbwriter, CarolROI (double thanks), montaquecat, Spectralprincess, Squealing Lit. Fan, mikabronxgirl, Lady Winifred, Busanda, mildetryth, Passed Over, Shayril, Mystery Guest, scarletghost13, angelofmusicxx, snowflake17 and jeevesandwooster for their latest reviews.**

**Third: I did look back to check what exactly needed going in this AN, and it turns out I owe you guys a double update. Good thing I happen to have one handy. This one should cover something I've been threatening for a while. I'll try and get back into my regular posting again. Thanks for putting up with me, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Chapter 52 

Gustave had spent half, if not most of the meal trying to pry out of Christine the identity of her 'Rosenkavalier'. Once Meg eventually caught on to the idea, she turned the subtle prodding into a full inquisition – at least until she caught the frosty glare being shot her way from her mother. Raoul's name was mentioned several times during the questioning, and talk soon turned to memories of when the girls were younger. It was difficult to avoid the conversation being bittersweet, but the sorrow was only subtle, thanks to the laughter that kept erupting.

Christine's success was praised and they relived each of the two performances thus far – accounts which were made all the more amusing by Meg's renditions of the goings on back stage and the usual madness which ensued there from. They didn't stay out too late, as the girls still had a performance to give, and Gustave had to get back to his hotel for an early departure the next day. In spite of this though, it was almost a perfect evening.

Almost.

Christine felt two absences too keenly to enjoy it completely, in spite of her efforts. Her father had only been there through their conversation, and whilst it had been lovely, there was no comparison to the real thing. And she missed her angel. Since he had begun the trip that had brought her back to her dressing room, she had been so afraid that she'd lost him. But he'd been there, had said he'd be there for her tomorrow.

_My power over you grows stronger yet . . ._

As they walked back home, the shiver that ran through her was not from the night air.

He had sung it with such conviction, had been unafraid to sing it directly to her. Had she really given him such a hold over her? Or had he earned it? It was definitely time for that chat with Mother Giry.

Once they had arrived at the Giry home, Antoinette insisted on escorting Christine home after sending Meg straight to bed (although she would probably only get there when she could see her mother returning). If Meg wondered why Gustave had not stayed to do that, as he usually would, she knew better than to ask – her mother was strange, even to her, and she obviously had her reasons.

The walk back to Christine's house was silent for the most part. She didn't see the shadow that followed them, but she wouldn't have been surprised anyway, for she didn't feel as anxious as she otherwise would have done. Antoinette followed her inside, shutting the door after sending a meaningful look out into the darkness.

Christine hung up their things and followed her second mother into the living room, taking a seat opposite her. They sat there in silence, both faces expressionless, both faces masked. Antoinette was anxious about what had happened, but was bound by another promise not to ask. Christine was anxious for her guardian to say something, but as usual, didn't know how to draw anything out of her.

Eventually, when the silence had grown maddening, Antoinette began in the safest way she could that would give Christine the opportunity to talk to her.

"Are you well?" The expression on her face was unmistakeable, and Christine was grateful one of them had finally come up with an icebreaker.

"You asked me that yesterday." Antoinette simply met her daughter's eyes steadily. "You knew what would happen after the performance." It wasn't a question. "You know him."

"Who?" The right question had to be asked, otherwise there was very little she could say without breaking her word.

"You know the Opera Ghost. You know my angel."

"I do." Christine let out a rather audible sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging as though a great burden had been lifted from them.

"Who is he?"

"You have already given him two names."

"But who is he?" Antoinette looked away.

"Christine, I have been keeping his secrets for many years now, more years than you have lived. I gave my word that I would go on keeping those secrets, just as I gave my word to your mother and father that I would look after you. There are some things you can only learn as he wills it." She heard all that was unspoken in that sentence. Mother Giry would never break her word, so there was little she could relate – but that didn't mean she wouldn't try.

"These secrets that you keep, do they include what lies beneath the mask?" Madame looked at the young girl sharply; ready to give a rebuke until she saw her face. It was filled with a look of knowing.

"He showed you?" Christine lowered her eyes and shook her head. Antoinette's mouth fell open as she stared in disbelief. She moved to her daughter's side and wrapped an arm around her.

"Did he hurt you?" Christine looked at her in shock. Was that what had been bothering her?

"No. He was angry, he was so angry. And then he . . . I hurt him, Mother. I hurt him so cruelly. He offered me the most wonderful music and I crushed him."

"He frightened you?" She nodded.

"Christine, I do know his face. I know it looks-"

"Don't." Antoinette stopped talking. She had not seen her second daughter look so fierce for a long time – and if it was the look Carlotta had been met with, no wonder it had taken the girl until the next day to lodge her complaint.

"Do you really think you have to tell me that it's only skin deep? That there's more to him than that? I've seen worse. But only Mama could rival his temper." Antoinette smiled, remembering the fire in Catherine's nature. Her daughter had inherited it as well, but thankfully along with a good helping of her father's gentleness. Though Katie had only been a red-head on stage, she had certainly had the flaring temper of one off it. She longed to tell Christine all that she knew, all that she was a part of, but instead did as she had been bound to do all these years: wait.

"I was so afraid, Mother. I thought I'd lost him. He says he's forgiven me, but he's so . . . sometimes it seems the easiest thing in the world to please him, and others all I can do is make him angry. His anger doesn't burn like Mama's; it's so cold. It's frightening how distant he can be."

"Was his anger cold last night?" She met her mother's eyes again, a look of horror fleeting across her face.

"No." She whispered brokenly.

"You feared he would harm you." Antoinette stated disappointedly.

"No!" Christine answered hastily. "He told me he would always be watching over me . . . he promised he would always keep me safe. My angel would never harm me." She uttered with quiet conviction.

"Child, you know he is not an angel." Madame Giry said carefully, concerned over the title Christine had given him twice now.

"I know he's a man. I know he pretends to be the Opera Ghost and he did those things to Carlotta. I know this is his house, that he uses it to help keep his promise. But I know that he's never invaded my privacy. I know he gave me my voice back. And he gave me Music. I know he's a man, but I know he's my angel."

Antoinette embraced the daughter of her heart, but not before Christine had seen the sheen of tears glistening in her eyes. Long had she feared that his inexperience with others would ruin all their hopes. But it would seem he still possessed the same magic that had won her old friend's devotion, just as it appeared he had now won her daughter's.

"Does he know about tomorrow?" She asked at length.

"He knows I can't stay. I said I'd be there the day after, though."

"He asked that of you?"

"No. I offered." The two exchanged a silent conversation: Christine's side being of guileless curiosity at her second mother's line of thought; Antoinette's side being filled with thoughts of what Gustave had revealed to her. True, Christine was unmistakeable devoted to her 'angel', but if it was not what they thought . . . he had suffered betrayal and disappointment enough; were Christine to give him false hope . . .

"If he says he has forgiven you, then you are forgiven, Christine. He never says anything he doesn't mean. But be careful: he doesn't forgive easily, and he doesn't forget easily. To have managed one is well done, but remember the other."

Christine received the careful warning gratefully. Her tutor often seemed mercurial in his behaviour, and no doubt she would have to tread carefully, given what she'd done – but she was expecting as much, seeing as she had been 'unmasked' herself before and remembered what it felt like all too well. She was grateful the doors had been opened at least somewhat; grateful that she now had someone she could talk with who at least knew what was going on – whether Mother Giry understood it fully or not.

* * *

As she left her second daughter to rest, and returned home under the watchful escort of a familiar shadow – not that he would ever admit to such behaviour – Antoinette resolved to keep a firmer watch over the pair. The whole situation could go so terribly wrong so very easily and though they both knew how to endure and survive, they were still too fragile to face the inevitable and tremendous disappointment, should the worst happen. 

She paused outside her own door, offering a silent thanks to the shape in the shadows. It soon melted away into the surrounding darkness as though it had never been there. She didn't doubt that he was heading back to the house to check on Christine. He had made a promise, after all. So had she.

And she would go on watching over both the charges that had been entrusted to her care.

She could do no less for the children of Katie O'Neill.


	54. Chapter 53

**Author's Note: Mega chapter for a mega absence. Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Chapter 53

She was utterly exhausted. The old lesson came back to her, ringing with more truth now that she had lived it once more: the first performance is tiring, the middling performances are improving, and the final performance will drain you completely. Her parents had taught her that since she was old enough to understand what performing was all about. The first performance was nerve-wracked, the rest were meant to be improvements and so they were all tiring in their own ways: but they were nothing to the closing performance which was the climax of all the time and effort, all the rehearsals and shows that had gone before: it was the one that would be remembered by those who had seen more than one – it was the standard by which all would be measured.

To say that Christine had measured up would be a gross understatement that could only be called an injustice.

The two prior performances paled into comparison as she gave her all for her parents and for her angel. She gave her soul to Music, and Music responded in grateful kind. Never in the history of the Ravelle had a first year student been given a curtain call in one of the main productions – and Christine was requested for two! The house thundered in adulation for the sweet beauty with the voice of an angel.

She didn't bother changing when she was finally released from the stage and the ever-increasing throng of admirers. Instead, she simply collapsed on the couch – as much as that infernal corset would allow – and closed her eyes, enjoying the first chance she'd had to breathe since plans for the production had been announced.

This was how he found her, dressed in white, her eyes closed and her lips parted slightly. She truly was exquisite. She couldn't be sleeping, since he had only just heard her enter the room a few moments ago. Then again, the last few days – weeks even – must have been hard on her. Silently, he slid the mirror away and moved to her side. Her face seemed to relax a little as he sat next to her. He was stopped from reaching for her hand as she shifted and instead rested her head on his shoulder. At first, he could not help tensing up, but eventually relaxed enough to risk tentatively resting his masked cheek atop her head and gently placing an arm around her shoulders – would that she was sat on his other side!

"You came." She whispered, her eyes still shut.

"Did you doubt me?" The exchange seemed to have become their standard introduction, but it remained heartfelt by both.

"Never." Her voice had softened, but the conviction was still there. She felt him moving slightly beside her and opened her eyes. As he offered the perfect bloom, she looked up at him, waiting to hear his words.

"You were perfection, Christine. Chalumeau weeps in his grave tonight for the beauty you graced his music with." Christine's eyes widened. Never had his words bestowed such a complement to her.

He moved the rose slightly nearer to her and she turned her eyes to it, accepting the gift. Delicately she fingered the ribbon fastened around it before bringing the bloom to her face and inhaling its sweet fragrance. Turning back to her masked mentor, who was watching her with that look of reverence she had first seen on his face, she offered him the warmest smile she could, hoping to convey all that his words and his gift meant to her, seeing as she never could with words of her own. Hesitantly, he raised his gloved hand to her face, not quite daring to caress the angel he held. She put her cheek in his hand anyway.

"Thank you." She whispered. He sat there a few minutes, lost in the wonder of the moment. He was holding Christine . . . his Christine. She had allowed him the caress he dared not take. She looked at him just the way she had as he had tried to show her his music of the night, the beauty he could give to her. And now she showed him a beauty and tenderness that paled in comparison – one which he had never known, even from Katie.

"I shall let you change. Be sure to rest tonight." Still he did not release her, and she made no move to leave his side.

"I will. And I will come tomorrow." He hadn't needed to remind her. Of her own volition, she was returning to him. All of his fears and she was granting him these joys instead.

The knock on the door made her start up from his hold.

"Christine?" Raoul's muffled voice called from outside. Her breath caught in her throat, knowing what her dark companion had said about him in the past.

"I shall not keep you from your appointment any longer, Miss Daaë." He said before swiftly disappearing behind the mirror. She only had time to rise and see his cloak vanishing into the darkness, he left so quickly. Never had he addressed her so formally. During their early lessons, he had always called her child, before moving on to other endearments. Never had she hated the sound of her own name before. Or the sound of Raoul's voice.

* * *

She had denied him for that . . . _boy_! All that she had said and done, all for nothing so long as that pup was around. An arrogant fool who did not appreciate the gift that she had, the treasure that she really was; who could never understand the power music's sway held over her. She belonged to Music, and that fool would steal her, would turn her into some pretty little ornament, a mindless display to pamper his ego.

He had hurt her. The boy had hurt her last night and not even noticed. Was that the care his rose was to be treated with? It had been all he could do not to snap the boy's neck then and there. She deserved better than that. She deserved better than him. But that child was even less able to give her what she deserved than he. As he had waited for Christine to retire last night, he had heard her stop outside the door that led from the house to his domain. So her disappointment had been true.

Then why was she now with one who would waste her gift, who would deny her the beauty of Music? Why was she denying him? It was these thoughts that turned his feet back along the passage he had just stormed down, back to the mirror against his will; back to Christine.

* * *

Once she had let Raoul in and he had lavished as much praise as he could – given that he knew little of music – he finally got around to the point of his disturbance.

"Come to supper with me."

"Raoul-"

"Now, you can't say no." Can't say no? Oh, yes she could! "I can understand you wanting to spend time with your teacher and your friends, but surely I'm your friend as well. Come on, Christine. Let me take you out to celebrate the close of a superb production and the climax of a magnificent debut."

"Raoul, I can't tonight."

"Christine, please, you're starting to be ridiculous." Her face hardened into its old mask.

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Saturday." He answered, perplexed.

"Yes, but do you know what day it is?"

"Christine, what are you talking about?"

"We shared a lot as children, but there are some things you never had a part in, Raoul. Maybe that's why you've forgotten." She lowered her head in disappointment.

"So remind me." He said huskily, stepping closer to her.

"It's my mother's birthday." She answered, finally meeting his eyes.

"But your mother . . . you still do that?" He asked, realising what it was she meant. She nodded.

"Even after all this time?" Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing. Whilst the times had been few, Raoul knew that look and instinctively moved back a step.

"The only love I have ever known is the kind that doesn't fade, even with death. Did you really expect less of me?" He didn't answer. Instead, he tried another – hopefully safer – path.

"Christine, you can't go alone. Let me come with you."

"No, Raoul. You didn't know her. It's something I have to by myself, seeing as I'm the only one left."

"But-"

"I'll be fine Raoul. I can't have dinner with you tonight." He sighed in resignation, knowing that Christine could not be shaken in her familial devotion, even if it did manifest itself oddly from time to time.

"Just promise me that we can catch up soon." She looked at him, considering what she was doing.

"I promise." His face lit up and he pressed a kiss to her cheek, not noticing the way she tensed up and flinched away slightly.

"Until then, Little Lotte." He said, before leaving her.

"Not going to pamper the patron?" The steel rang out, making that heavenly voice sound almost demonic. All Christine could do was cling to her rose.

"I wasn't going to meet him tonight. I didn't know he'd be here." She said, turning to find herself facing her own reflection. He wasn't there: he was the Ghost once more.

"No doubt he will enjoy more of your song." The diatribe continued as though she hadn't spoken.

"How can you say that?" She called out desperately. "You know I sing only for you. Please, my angel, I gave you my soul tonight." She finished on a whisper, her head lowered in supplication. This was exactly what she had feared.

"No emperor could have received a more beautiful gift." She looked up to find him stood before her. How had he moved so quietly? "Where are you going, if not with any of your _friends_?" The last word was said with a hint of disgust.

"I'm going to see my mother." He looked at her in surprise.

"I thought your mother was dead." Christine's eyes welled up a little.

"She's been dead for over ten years."

"You're going to a graveyard at this time of night?" He asked, incredulous.

"I've done it before. I have to see her. I would have gone earlier, but the rehearsals-"

"You cannot go, Christine, it wouldn't be safe." She stepped away from him, horrified that her angel was taking the exact same line as Raoul.

"I have to go, and I will." He took hold of her arm to emphasise his point.

"Christine, you cannot. I will not let you put yourself so recklessly in harm's way." She looked at him through her tears, weighing up the situation, wondering.

"Then come with me." He released her.

"You denied your friend's offer of accompaniment." He observed quietly, wondering if this was merely an attempt to get herself back into his good graces.

"He didn't know my mother. He never really understood my family."

"What makes you think I knew your mother?" He asked, slightly breathlessly. Was it possible? Did she know? Did she understand?"

"Nothing. But ghost or man, you're my angel. And I know she would have liked you. She had a soul for music as well."

"Leave by the stage door in fifteen minutes." He finally answered before leaving the familiar way.

Christine changed herself quickly into the white dress she had worn the last time she had made this trip, before wrapping herself securely in her thick black coat. Checking that she'd remembered everything, she tucked her rose securely into her hair so that it wouldn't be lost or damaged, then gathered up the bouquet of pink carnations adorned with fern leaves: the carnations, her promise that she would never forget her mother, or her father; the fern speaking of the secret bond of love by which the three were still bound – a bond which only they had ever really understood.

She made her way out the back door, her coat concealing her from the admirers still hovering. Standing by the door, she looked around anxiously, wondering how she would ever find one so good at disappearing, until she saw a shape by a tree across the way; a shape which soon revealed a white mask as the moonlight struck it. Making her way over, she continued looking around, trying to avoid anyone else's eyes.

"Worried about being seen with me?" was the greeting she was met with.

"You were hiding." She pointed out gently. Was that the hint of a smile she saw? Gesturing with his hand, he bid her lead the way, which she did for a few steps before turning back to him, silently asking him once more to join her.

They walked side by side in silence. Grateful as she was for his presence, she wished he'd say something. Giving up on that, she turned her thoughts to the few memories she still had of her mother – the ones that were her own, anyway.

At length, they reached the familiar cemetery and he fell a step behind her as she made her way slowly along the rows of stones. When she stopped and turned down one, he remained where he was, not wanting to disturb her, knowing that she was hurting with a very private pain. She turned to him again, this time openly pleading.

"Come with me?" It was barely a choked whisper. As she held out her hand, he was once again overcome with the realisation that he could deny her nothing. Taking it, he allowed her to lead him to her parents' grave.

Just as she had the last time, she knelt down and carefully removed all the weeds and dirt that had hidden the little stone in any way. Tenderly, she traced each of the two names carved there as she cleared them.

_Charles Daaë_

_Beloved husband, father and friend_

_Rejoice with the angels as your music returns home_

And above it:

_Catherine 'Katie' O'Neill Daaë_

_Beloved wife, mother and friend_

_The angels rejoice to have thee home again_

* * *

All these years and he'd never known where she was buried. All those years of being unable to say goodbye, and the child she had spoken of that last time had finally fulfilled the promise. He was finally able to grieve over the woman who had taken him in, the woman who had taught him that a mother was not an evil thing; the woman who had shown him that love existed in the world, and could be a part of his as well.

And her child had finally brought the light of hope to those promises he had thought of as only a dream.

* * *

Christine rose from her knees, having no more excuses to stay down there. She unconsciously stepped back a little so that her angel was directly behind her before she removed her coat revealing the simple, beautiful white dress she wore on these visits – as promised. Clearing her throat of the lump that had risen, positioning herself correctly and taking a breath, she opened her mouth and allowed the song to pour out.

"Lay down, Your sweet and weary head; Night is falling, you have come to journey's end. Sleep now, Dream – of the ones who came before; They are calling From across a distant shore." She began quietly, trying to focus on the music rather than the reasons for it. As she came to the next lines, she stopped trying to hold back the tears, yet her voice retained its clarity.

"Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see All of your fears will pass away Safe in my arms; You're only sleeping."

Her voice rose as the music bid her be carried beyond her current plane.

"What can you see On the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea A pale moon rises, The ships have come To carry you home.

"And all will turn to silver glass, A light on the water, All souls pass."

She softened her voice, and as she thought on the words that followed, fear entering her voice as they struck a chord that was all too familiar.

"Hope fades, Into the world of night Through shadows falling Out of memory and time. Don't say 'We have come now to the end,' White shores are calling, You and I will meet again."

Hope gave her voice wings once more; the hope that was promised in the words that had been written with her pain in mind.

"And you'll be here in my arms, Just sleeping.

"What can you see On the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea A pale moon rises, The ships have come To carry you home."

The last note did not sink down into the next verse; instead it rose and grew, granted the wings of the air and the strength of the tides thanks to her angel. At length, her voice softened once more, dimming into the final farewell.

"And all will turn to silver glass, A light on the water; Grey ships pass Into the West."

She took a breath, her head bowed, before whispering, somewhat hesitantly.

"Hey, Mama. I know, I know: no tears. It's just so hard to think of life, to think of the good times, without remembering how many more we were robbed of. Sorry I didn't come sooner. Closing night. I got two curtain calls. Not bad, eh? Knowing you, you would've gotten three. Hope you guys don't mind that I gave it to someone else. Well, I guess you've been watching so you would have known anyway." She startled him by taking his hand as she went on. "You'd like him, Mama. I know you'd love the music. You were right, and he taught me that. I know you'd like him."

The two stood in silence a few minutes, she struggling to hold back the tears, he struggling to keep silence and give her the time she needed.

"I'd better go, Mama. I'm under orders to get some rest – not that I needed orders. You weren't kidding about final performances. Look after Papa for me . . . for us. And you tell him that song definitely needs the accompaniment."

She waited a few moments, unwilling to move. At length, she raised her face to the sky, allowing it to be bathed in the starlight. Smiling, she said:

"Alright, Mama. Lady's choice it is." And once more she sang _Lift the Wings_, though this time as a solo. It would have been a strange choice to sing for one who had thrived on a life filled with colour and music, but it was a song for a mother who could not comfort her child as either of them would have wished. Like its predecessor, it was filled with the words that Katie would have sung to her child had she been there, it was a renewal of the bond the Daaë's shared that not even death could break.

* * *

The song she sang was one of farewell, but not a song of mourning. It was a song of remembrance filled with promise. And like the requiem, it was one he had never heard before. Another of her father's? He could tell she was struggling to keep her emotions in check enough to sing, and yet like the last time, that only served to make it more poignant, more beautiful. Once more, she was giving her soul to the music, but because these were not the words of a stranger nor meant for one, she gave her heart as well, instead of merely singing with it. Silently he begged Katie that one day he might be granted even the smallest portion of such a precious gift.

He was astonished as she began speaking directly to her mother. Not that he should have been. She had believed that an Angel was watching over her; of course she would believe that her parents were watching as well. He knew he would continue to guard her were he to leave this mortal realm – no matter where he ended up. She had startled him by taking his hand as she spoke of him. Until that moment he had felt out of place; a creature of the night standing watch over an angel of light. Though she didn't know all, she still had faith in her mother's approval of him, believing that he had her father's. He was intrigued by what accompaniment the song required – it had sounded lovely to his ears – and regretted that he had not known of her plans sooner. Perhaps he could have provided the music she felt was lacking. Perhaps then, he could have said his farewells also, but if Katie really was watching, then no matter what he would have wished to say, he didn't need to: she would have understood.

When she began _Lift the Wings_, he couldn't help but wonder why she credited that as being her mother's choice, how she knew what to say. His thoughts didn't last long though, as Christine's sweet song pushed aside everything except the music. By choosing that song, Katie was saying a goodbye she really didn't want to. Christine was saying a goodbye she really didn't want to. And still she held on to his hand. Still she was stood by him; still she looked to him for comfort.

She finally whispered her goodbye – or at least her promise that she would return soon – and turned to him. Though she tried valiantly to hide it, the look of sorrow and pure pain on her face cut him to the quick. He reached up to her hair and took down his rose, offering to her the one thing he could think of to cheer her. She took it with a watery smile and he placed her coat around her shoulders once more. Without moving away from her, though he removed his touch, he guided her down the row of stones and back onto the main pathway that led out of the graveyard.

As they neared the gates, he saw and felt the tremors that shook her. With a hand on her shoulder, he stopped and turned her. Raising her head, he coaxed her eyes open. The tears were streaming silently down her face, though she was obviously holding most of them back. He tried to think of what he could say to calm her, wanting to take away her pain. She searched his face and reading his wish she half fell against him, wrapping her arms around him tightly and letting her tears fall for the parents she had lost, and the mother she could hardly remember. For a few moments he simply stood there, uncertain of what to do. He, who had known very little human contact over the years – that had not been malicious –, was the one his rose turned to for comfort. Slowly, carefully and tenderly he wrapped his arms around her in return, holding her to him, offering his strength to support her so long as she needed it. As her quiet sobs continued, he found himself rubbing her back a little. Were it not for the fact she was distraught, he would have thought this place of death to be heaven for the joy that it was giving him. But she was weeping bitterly, and so his joy was marred by her pain which he felt as his own, since he too knew the loss of Katie O'Neill, Catherine Daaë.

Eventually, she quietened down a little, though the tears continued to flow, and he led her to a bench nearby. Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped her face as delicately as though she were made of glass. Smiling, and with a shaky voice, she said,

"Sorry. She didn't want any tears at her funeral, just life and colour and music – the way she lived. It's why I try not to cry whenever I come here. I usually last longer than this though." She lowered her head as a fresh burst silently started. When it began to subside, he wiped them away again.

"Thank you. For coming, for listening, for being here, for . . . for being you. Thank you." His mouth opened a little at her strange but sincere gratitude.

"Is it always this . . . difficult for you?" He asked quietly. She nodded.

"With Papa, I've only just . . . he's only just gone home. It's still fresh. With Mama . . . She died when I was six. I don't have many memories of her – memories that are my own, anyway. Every time I come here, I find it harder to remember her through my own eyes. I know I loved her, I know I still do, I just wish I had something stronger to cling on to than a few snapshots that grow hazier every time I try to see them."

They stayed there a while as she collected herself: she sat leaning on him, gently fingering the rose he had given; he with one arm that had not moved from holding her, the other softly wiping away any stray tears.

"Christine," she looked up at him, "if ever you come here again; let me accompany you. You have wandered in these shadows alone for too long. I promised I would watch over you: I cannot keep you safe whilst you allow yourself to suffer greater pain than you have to. I know solitude, what it is to be alone. Do not add that to the grief you already feel." She gazed at him in wonder. With the exception of when she had visited his home, it was the most he had ever really said to her in one go. And as always, it was just what she needed to hear.

Surprising them both, she leaned forward and pressed an affectionate kiss against his unmasked cheek before whispering into his ear,

"Alright."

* * *

He escorted her home in silent astonishment. All those years ago, he had been wrong: he _could_ always count on Katie. Christine had kissed him! The monster who had had her cowering on the floor before him, who had manipulated her, lied to her; she had kissed him. The only other kiss he had known had come from her mother, but that had not been without a little prompting. This, though, he had earned, had won. And it could not have been regretted, for still her hand was in his.

As they reached her back door – technically his, but he had not lived there since she moved in – she turned to face him again, smiling in silent gratitude. There were no words for the contentment they each felt, for there were no words that would not have spoilt it. Instead, he raised her hand to his lips and reverently placed a kiss there, awed that she still allowed it. When he tried to lower her hand, she removed it from his grasp and cupped his face in it instead, silently expressing her gratitude in a similar vein. He held her hand there, savouring the contact, savouring the bliss, before wordlessly bidding her to retire. She entered the house smiling, transformed from the weeping mess she had been in the cemetery. Transformed by him.

So enraptured was he, he almost failed to spot the portly shape of the Master of the Flies as he led a familiar red head and a few others towards the house.

Almost.


	55. Chapter 54

**Author's Note: Thanks to steelelf (double thanks), Rose of Night, jtbwriter, Busanda (double thanks), CarolROI (double thanks), scarletghost13, jeevesandwooster (double thanks), spectralprincess (double thanks), montaquecat (doublethanks) and mikabronxgirl (yes, I did get the PM and I'm counting it as a review) for their latest reviews.**

**Once again, apologies for the delay (I seem to be apologising a lot lately (and using a lot of brackets!)). I know I said I'd try and get back to daily updates, but I managed to land myself with more craziness. Hopefully we're in the cleaer now. Thanks again for bearing with me, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 54

When Luciana had told her daughter about the first performance, she had tried to illustrate out all the flaws and make Carlotta feel superior to her rival, seeing as the girl had gotten away with far too many insults against the Guidacelli name. But Carlotta knew her mother, and could see that she had been impressed. The two women had exulted together over the errors that had been listed, but the elder felt somewhat empty as she laughed and the younger was seething in a fresh earnest. Her own mother had _favoured_ the little upstart!

She had sent one of her friends from another school to get a ticket for her for the last performance, and after pulling a few strings, had made sure there was one waiting at the box office. Obviously, she couldn't go herself, seeing as everyone knew her and the ensuing gossip would only add insult to the terrible injury she already bore because of that thieving little tramp. When she saw her rival on stage performing the lovers' duet with her Ubaldo, receiving the praise and admiration that was rightfully hers, she had stormed out of the place, boiling with rage. Her cheeks were flushed to the point of matching her hair and in spite of her rather public location; she was just about ready to unleash her fury by screaming at the injustice of it all.

Until Joe Buquet had sidled up to her.

The disgusting little man had been giving her greetings and the occasional wink ever since their Halloween jaunt, acknowledging the little conspiracy they had been a part of. Were it not for the many pieces of information he'd fed her in her quest to belittle Miss Daaë, he would have been annoying. As it was, he just tended to be somewhat tiresome.

"Should've been you up there. A slip of a girl like that ain't never gonna know how to handle a stage."

"I don't need to be reminded of _that_, Mr. Buquet." Carlotta answered disdainfully.

"I bet I can think of something you do need reminding of." He grinned. She looked at him, seriously doubting he could think at all.

"Really?"

"How's about which house little Miss Priss lives in. All alone, mind, seeing as no one else'd live in the Ghost's house. At least, no one else'd be allowed to live there." He replied, his voice heavily laden with meaning.

"Mr. Buquet-"

"Joe."

"Mr. Buquet, I believe we had a similar conversation to this last year, and I distinctly remember the outcome. What makes you think I'm going to bother with your stupid little ghost hunts now?"

"Only the fact that it's expected at Halloween. Now, though . . ." She turned to him, her interest captured once more.

"Now, though, no one will be expecting it and the house won't be empty." She answered, grinning maliciously, savouring the opportunity to get back at her rival. Joe matched her grin, savouring the opportunity to get back at the Ghost. That thing had been pulling the strings for too long and the grief he'd received for that stunt at the dress rehearsal was just begging for some retribution.

So it was they found themselves drawing near to the gothic house once more, accompanied with a few stage hands who were not quite so drunk as last time. Like last time, Joe clumsily managed to pick the lock, but unlike last time, they made their way inside quietly, and seeing as there was only about half a dozen, they managed to keep together.

After quietly searching around the ground floor for a while and finding nothing and no-one, Carlotta took control and led the group up the stairs to the first floor. Being somewhat more sober, they tried each door, looking to see what was in them and finding very little. Except for one door that refused to open. Carlotta and Joe grinned to each other triumphantly. All the others had been open. Why would there be a closed door in the ghost's house? What, or who, was hidden behind it? Joe set to work on what he assumed to be the lock, much as he had with the front door. The group were all focussed intently on his work, waiting with bated breath for the click that would unlock one of the ghost's mysteries.

At least until one of the stage hands looked around to see a shadow disappearing down the stairs.

* * *

She had climbed the stairs in a daze. Whilst she made those trips to the cemetery out of love, she always dreaded them, knowing how hard they would be. Actually, hard didn't come close to covering it. But this visit . . .

Her angel had been a tower of strength, allowing her to complete her little ritual without interference, yet always there. His presence had given her the support she needed and the knowledge that she wasn't alone had provided some comfort for the pain. As ever, he had been all that she needed and more. Smiling, she thought once again that he really was her angel. And being a man made him all the more wonderful.

She hadn't bothered checking the curtains and locks when she came in – not that she'd have been able to think of that, her head was so far up in the clouds – seeing as she'd locked them all before she left and had only needed one to get back in. Instead, she had simply gotten ready for bed, anticipating yet another glorious night of sleep thanks to her angel's magic.

Until she heard someone moving around downstairs.

Fleetingly, she thought it might be her angel, but then realised he would never make so much noise. Almost on a reflex, she reached for a jacket, having just taken off her make-up. Fastening it, she pulled on a pair of slippers and quietly made her way out of her room and down the stairs. Having spent so much time in silence when she first moved in, she knew exactly which floorboards creaked and so remained stealthy as she crept around the corner that revealed the first floor to her.

She had to stifle a gasp of shock and a few choice words of insult when she saw who was in the house, trying to break into the room that had always been shut. Resisting the temptation to wait and see if they would be successful in getting in, she took the opportunity the distraction provided and slipped past them down the stairs.

About to make her way to the front door, she was stopped and turned at the sound of footsteps coming down after her. That was when her eyes fell on the dark passageway that led past the other side of the stairs to the back of the house. Disregarding being seen, she ran down the dark little corridor frantically checked that the door to her parents' shrine was still locked. She allowed herself a small sigh of relief as she found this to be the case. The relief was short lived as those footsteps began slowly, tauntingly making their way towards her.

"Come on out, Miss Daaë. Ain't nowhere for you to run. We just want to have a little chat." She could practically hear the leer written over Joe Buquet's face. It was well-known that he liked to spy on the ballet girls. That's why most of them kept their costumes on underneath their clothes to avoid changing too much whilst in the theatre. The thought of being alone in the house with him, his cohorts and Carlotta sent her into a panic. The thought of them finding the room devoted to her parents and doing anything to it turned the panic into a frenzy. She took hold of the dresser that was near the room and started shoving it, trying to conceal the door. It hardly budged, and she could not push harder without making noise that would attract more attention. Buquet's voice hadn't been strong enough for him to be looking in the right place for her, but she knew there wasn't much time.

Miraculously, the dresser suddenly began to slide easily into place. It was finally positioned when a torch beam fell on her.

"She's down her, Joe!" Someone called. She jumped out of the light as the boy's head was turned, hiding on the other side of the dresser. There was no way out! And they were coming. Her breathing grew rapid. She hadn't had a panic attack since her voice had come back, but one was definitely coming now. The torches lit up the crew making their way ever so slowly down the corridor, shining only a few feet in front of them. They were tormenting her. And it was working. They were about to light up the area near where she was stood when she felt a vise-like grip clamp around her waist and over her mouth, silencing the scream that immediately rose.

The mysterious force pulled her from behind, across the corridor and then she was swallowed by the darkness.

Her fear was complete.

* * *

**(Ducks oncoming missiles) I know, I'm evil. I WILL post tomorrow. Promise. Until then, you'll just have to grin and bear it. (Grins) Nedjmet.**


	56. Chapter 55

**Author's Note: Thanks to CarolROI, steelelf, Spectralprincess, jtbwriter, Rose of Night, Busanda, mikabronxgirl, montaquecat, Lady Winifred (double thanks) and KyrieofAccender for their latest reviews.**

**And we've hit yet another target, so here's part one of another double upadte for you.Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 55

When he had seen the harpy and that drunken prying fool brazenly trespassing on _his_ property yet again, the calm he had previously felt from Christine's presence had evaporated until all that was left was a cold, steely anger – the same anger that was responsible for at least half of the legends about him.

By the time he had made his way inside and tracked them down, they were on the first floor watching Buquet clumsily attempting to break into his music room. Idiot! The keyhole was a decoy and the lock concealed. Knowing that imbecile, he'd probably be at it for a month before he realised it was hopeless.

He was about to begin his usual tricks of frightening them away – no matter how many times he did it, Buquet always fell for them – when he saw Christine inching her way down the stairs. Concealed as he was, there was no way of warning her to go back up without frightening her or risking drawing attention to her. As she quietly passed by them – she really was his protégé, and he hadn't even taught her to be that silent – he made sure that everyone was focused on Buquet. Whenever it looked as though someone's head might be turning in the wrong direction, he disguised and threw his voice into that person's ear so that they thought some progress was being made and continued to watch. Satisfied that she was out of the way, he slipped down the stairs himself, hurrying to catch her and take her to safety.

As he reached the ground floor, he saw her running down one of the back corridors. Why was she not leaving? She could have been gone by now! Then he realised. The room she had put so much love and work into, the room that looked as though it bore everything she had of her parents; she was running to protect it. He did not have time to marvel at the depth of love and devotion she was capable of – the sound of footsteps following his caused him to chase after his rose, concealing himself in the process.

Whilst certain he was not seen, he knew there would not be much time and silently helped her conceal the room. Just as a torch beam fell on her, temporarily blinding her sight, he slipped across to the opposite wall and opened the passageway hidden there.

They were coming.

He tried calling out to her, throwing his voice so that she alone would hear it. The sight of her quivering breathlessly by the dresser reminded him painfully of the first time she had seen him – the first time she had called him 'Angel'. And he knew there was only one way to reach her.

He took hold of her and pulled her into the shadows.

Frantically she began struggling against him, wanting to scream even as he held her silent. Hurrying along the narrow passageway, he held her firmly trying desperately not to harm her, for one sound and their presence could well be revealed – even though there was little chance that they'd be found.

Once they were within the boundaries of his opera house, he released her. Her efforts to get away didn't cease. It was as though she didn't realise he'd let her go until she was two feet away from him. He took hold of her shoulders, turned her to face him and called her name in the firm but alluring voice she always responded to. It stilled her a little, but her face remained filled with panic. Taking hold of a torch, he wrapped his other arm around her waist and holding her hand, guided her from behind. Her eyes kept darting around the tunnels as they moved down towards the underground quay once more. This time he had to lift her into the boat, and though she made no protest, he could tell she would have otherwise bolted the moment he let go of her hand. He lay her down on the cushions and she curled up into a protective ball, her eyes always looking around, always looking for something.

He inwardly cursed the fools who had done this to her. His rose was strong! He had seen her bear so much and yet she was lying before him trembling like a helpless child. Once again, he was struck with a realisation: she feared the darkness. Last time he had brought her down, she had been too absorbed in the music to let it show.

The music.

Though he could have chosen a better setting and circumstances, he knew there was no better time: his rose needed his comfort. Softly, he raised his voice into the first song she had ever inspired in him – the first one he had written solely for her.

"No one would listen, No one but her, Heard as the outcast hears.

"Shamed into solitude, Shunned by the multitude, I learned to listen; In my dark, my heart heard music.

"I longed to teach the world, Rise up and reach the world, No one would listen – I alone could hear the music." His eyes moved from the waters ahead to fix on her now stilled form as he sang with a full heart:

"Then at last, a voice in the gloom Seemed to cry, 'I hear you! I hear your fears, Your torment and your tears!'

"She saw my loneliness, Shared in my emptiness; No one would listen, No one but her, Heard as the outcast hears."

Lifting her gently out of the boat and moving towards the bed where he carefully laid her once more, he echoed again:

"No one would listen, No one but her, Heard as the outcast hears."

She was completely still and calm, her eyes gazing up at him. But those eyes were empty. So he had bewitched her again, but this time into a stupor. Backing away, he went to retrieve a candle – the majority of the place being unlit, seeing as he had not been expecting company. As he retreated into the shadows, Christine's head slowly moved back to staring up at the ceiling, where her gaze had been since he had put her in the boat.

He returned with a candlestick bearing three candles to light the cavern for her. Gently, he called to her, trying to draw her attention to the flames, trying to bring her back from whatever darkness she had become lost in.

"Christine."

She looked his way, her eyes flickering briefly to the candles before widening in horror. Shuffling quickly to the other side of the large swan bed, she frantically covered the right side of her face as she faced away from him. Keeping her face hidden, she began brushing at her right arm and side, the panicked movements swiftly turning into a clawing action that had him genuinely alarmed.

As he moved around to the side she was now on, she began calling out almost wordless protests. She had turned from him, was rejecting him: she feared him. But that did not stop him from taking hold of her shoulders once more as he knelt on the bed by her side, giving her a quick shake and calling her name again, this time putting all the thunder and power he could into his voice: the voice of the phantom.

She woke up from her daze.

Looking at him coherently for the first time since he had returned her to the house, her eyes filled with questions and wonder. Lowering her hand from her face, she looked at it in confusion. He let go of her shoulders as she took in her surroundings, sinking back wearily, though never taking his gaze from her.

As her head turned back to him, her eyes searched his face until realisation dawned. She couldn't stop the tears that fell, didn't even try. Neither did she attempt to hold back the sobs that rose in her throat.

It tore him apart to see her tears. But he did not melt as he ordinarily would have. She had cowered before him in fear, in spite of all she had said, all the hope she had given, and in spite of all that he had done to restore her faith in-

His train of thought was cut off as she crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his waist. Burying her face against his shoulder, she proceeded to soak his shirt with her tears. Softly, he held her, unable to do less, unwilling to do more.

Her tears tore him apart.

But her rejection broke his heart.


	57. Chapter 56

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 56

She had rejected him, turned away from him once more. Yes, she had been frightened, but that only meant she was acting on instinct. And her instincts were to shrink away from him, to cower at the very sight of him. He had thought that when she'd fought against his hold, it had been because of the shock. But she had to have known him as he led her down the tunnels, she'd responded to his voice.

His voice had calmed her. But his person had repulsed her.

He knelt by the lake, staring at his reflection as he thought on the angel lying in his bed. Once she had exhausted herself with her tears, he had eased her back into a more comfortable position before leaving her. Where just about anyone else would look awful after having cried so much, even with her eyes swollen and reddened, she was still a wondrous vision.

The face of an angel. The heart of a serpent.

All the defences he had built over time, forged through years of pain that could easily encompass several lifetimes' worth of suffering; all those defences and she had managed to get past them. And just like her mother, she had crushed him, turned her back on him.

Just like Katie, Christine would surely leave.

And he had been a fool to ever think otherwise.

* * *

She woke with a pounding headache. The cool silk she was resting on eased the tension somewhat, but she still felt . . .

Silk.

There wasn't anything silk she had that she'd be lying on. Slowly and groggily, she opened her eyes to be met with a familiar sight. She was lying on red silk sheets in a golden swan bed. The walls and ceiling were a rocky cavern and there were candles all around. Her eyes darted away from them, seeking out something other than the flames. They landed on the small monkey, though his cymbals were silent and no music came forth this time.

She blinked back a fresh onslaught of tears as she remembered and realised what had gone before. It had been her angel who had pulled her into the shadows, her angel who had brought her to safety in spite of how she had fought him.

She had fought him.

After how she had betrayed him with the mask, let him down in her behaviour towards Raoul and now she had fought him. And still he had calmed her, soothed her, brought her back once more from the clutches of the most terrible darkness. Once again he had given her that music and saved her from her despair.

Rising on shaky legs, she fought her exhaustion and went in search of her Angel. He was crouched on the bank of the lake, running a hand through the silent waters. Surrounded by the opulence of his kingdom, she felt so out of place in her jogging bottoms, vest top and jacket. The sight of him crouched by the lake brought back the images of the last time she had seen him that way: when she had broken him.

Suddenly, she was not so sure she dared go near.

But staying away had never been an option. Not daring to break the silence he had imposed on his kingdom of music, she approached him as quietly as she could, sitting a few feet away from his left side. He had probably been aware of her since she'd entered the main cavern, and yet he still made no move to acknowledge her presence.

"You have rested, then." He said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the waters, his hand still blurring his already marred reflection.

"Yes, thank you." Raising his head, he looked out over the black waters that remained undisturbed in spite of his small waves. Christine looked down and spied her watch. Smiling nervously, she ventured.

"Well, I did say I'd see you tomorrow." He turned to face her then and she flinched at the cold steel his eyes directed her way.

"And now you have fulfilled your promise I am to return you." Looking at him in confusion, she whispered.

"If you want to."

His face devoid of any emotion, he rose and fetched his cape. About to pass her to reach the gondola, he was stopped as she grabbed his arm. A muscle clenched in his jaw before he looked down at her.

"Angel, what have I done?"

"Nothing that was not expected." He shrugged off her hold on him. She got to her feet and took hold of him once more before he could reach the pole that would drive the boat. Turning him to face her, she asked again.

"What do you mean? Angel, what did I do last night to make you so cold towards me?" Silence. That worried her more with him stood barely inches away from her than if he was hiding. She could touch him and yet she could not reach him. "Please, Angel. Why protect me from them just to hurt me more than they would have?"

Shock washed over his features. The steel of his anger melted until it burned as fury once more. Taking hold of her arms, he ignored her wince as he held her away from him.

"Why protect you? So I can endure more of your lies, so I can face your abhorrence of me again." Pushing her away, he moved back over to the boat. "Do not speak to me of hurt."

He stood waiting for her to climb in, clearly putting an end to the conversation. Christine searched the recesses of her mind, trying to think what had happened that she'd missed. What could she have done?

"You came in with a candle." She whispered. His frown deepened and he looked at her with a reluctant question in his eyes.

"What of it?"

"You came in with a candle, and I ran away from you." He looked away, not needing the reminder. Slowly, she moved back to him. Gently touching his arm, it was her turn to ignore the flinch.

"Angel, you know I fear the dark," he looked down into her pleading eyes and felt his resolve melting a little, "but I am terrified of fire. Even if it's just the single flame of a candle." She could have knocked him down with a feather, or even a breath.

"The only light here is from fire. You expect me to believe it didn't bother you last time?"

"Yes." Scoffing, he turned from her again, but she didn't let him this time. Standing firmly in front of him, she explained, "Because an angel once told me he would be watching over me, that he would keep me safe. And I believed him."

Still he remained unmoved. It was too much to hope for. She raised her hand to his face, wanting to restore what had passed between them only a few short hours ago. He grabbed hold of her wrist before she could touch him though.

"Why would I want to hurt my guardian angel?" She begged. His grip on her hand loosened, though his hold remained. Again she tried, and this time succeeded in laying her palm against his cheek.

"Rest, Christine. I shall return you in the morning." He acquiesced wearily.

Following his silent instruction, she returned the way she had come. Before leaving the cavern, she whispered 'goodnight' to him. She was tremendously relieved when after a few moments, he returned it.

* * *

After a couple of hours of lying there restlessly, she realised she wasn't going to get any sleep. Silently, she padded her way back to the main cavern where she spied her angel at the great organ, once more scribbling away. She sat on the ground where she could watch him, finding comfort in his presence.

"I thought you would be asleep." He eventually broke the silence, his back still to her. That was when she truly realised: this latest wound she had inflicted had not been healed, neither had he recovered from when she had unmasked him. Her angel was drifting from her, lost on the other side of a void she had created.

And there was only one chance she could think of to bring him back.

"I need to tell you something."

* * *

**Author's Note: OK, we established in Chapter 54 that I'm evil, so you can put those missiles down now. I was going to put these two chapters together and give you the next bit, but it's late, I'm tired and I owed you a double update and they split nicely anyway. I WILL update tomorrow, because I've been looking forward to the next chapter for quite a while now. Apologies for yet another cliffhanger, but you ought to know by now that I do love keeping your interest piqued even if my methods are a bit evil at times. Thanks for reading. Nedjmet.**


	58. Chapter 57

**Author's Note: Thanks to montaquecat (double thanks), CarolROI, Busanda (double thanks), Soignante, Spectralprincess (double thanks), jtbwriter, mikabronxgirl, Lady Winifred, Lothiel and a super duper thank you to KyrieofAccender for five reviews and getting through the whole thing so far in two days.**

**I was going to leave it at this chapter, but it turns out we've hit ANOTHER target (you guys are unbelievable - luckily, I've got a pretty good idea what's happening in the next chapter), so I'll get to work and try and get another one posted for you today as well. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 57

He turned to her, the tone in her voice making him both intrigued and worried. The last time her voice had sounded like that, she had asked whether or not he was the Ghost. That she was offering information instead of asking for it made him particularly anxious about whatever it was.

"You should be resting. Can it not wait until morning?" She didn't answer, merely looked at him, pleading with those beautiful blue eyes of hers. Resignedly, he put down his pen and moved to her side, wondering what new torments she had in store for him.

As he sat down, she looked at him fearfully, knowing that this could well decide her future – and more importantly, whether or not he would be in it. He met her eyes, and she looked away, her hands starting to fidget.

"You are afraid of me." It wasn't a question, and he was unable to completely mask the tone of bitterness in his voice. Her head snapped up.

"A little, yes." Seeing him stiffen, she continued, "But probably not for the reasons you're thinking of." He looked at her, curious but silent. Taking the cue, she elaborated, "It's just that I've never talked with anyone about this before."

Looking down, she began quietly.

"My father was killed in a fire." She looked at him, searching his eyes, smiling a little at what she found. "She told you then." His brow creased in question. "Mother Giry, she told you that." Carefully, he nodded, uncertain how she would take it. Lowering her head once more, she went on in a quiet but steady voice which thickened with each mention of the man she had lost.

"The fire started in our home, when we were asleep. By the time Papa was awake and realised, it had spread pretty far downstairs. When he'd woken me and got me out of my room . . . even if we could have made it down the stairs, we wouldn't have been able to get out that way. He took us into his room to wait. It was the one furthest from the fire. We couldn't get out of any of the windows – they weren't big enough and the drop was too much if we'd broken one. So we sat by the window, waiting for the firemen. They took _so_ long to come.

"When the smoke started creeping under the door, he took every blanket, every covering that could help and wrapped me up in them. He didn't want the flames to touch me. But that didn't leave enough for him. I tried to have him join me, but there weren't enough for both of us and he didn't want me to get hurt, so there was no arguing with him.

"By the time the firemen arrived, the fire was in the room, and what with the smoke, heat and the blankets, it was only Papa's voice that was keeping me awake. They managed to get us out, but Papa insisted I go first.

"I didn't see him again until we were in the hospital. It didn't matter what I said, they wouldn't let me go to him until they'd treated me a little. He was in the burns unit, covered head to toe in bandages. Two days I sat by his side, holding onto his one hand that hadn't been burnt as much. It's funny; his one good hand was his left hand. He could have still played if . . ." The tears began streaming down her face, and neither made any move to stop them. At length, she collected herself and went on, though the tears continued to flow.

"Two days he lingered. Two days we stared at each other, exchanging the few words we could, knowing somewhere inside that there wouldn't be anymore, though we never spoke of that. The last thing he said to me was 'Remember the Angel'. I know all that he would have said if he could, but it was enough. Even when they turned the machines off, I still held his hand.

"When I finally realised that he . . . that he'd gone home, it didn't sink in properly. I eventually persuaded the doctors to let me see him, one last time. Without the bandages. I wanted to say goodbye to him, not a mask. So they took them off. It wasn't till I looked into his eyes that I recognised my Papa, when I saw his hand that was still wrapped around mine. I was the one who closed his eyes, after I'd kissed him one last time." Before she continued, she returned her gaze to her dark angel, looking at him steadily, willing him to understand.

"I couldn't recognise him because all I could see was what had taken him from me: the mark of the flames was all over him. That's why I can't stand the sight of fire, in any form: all I see is what took Papa away from me, what took my voice, my music. All I see is what destroyed me, and because of what happened, when you brought the candle in, all I could see was the fire coming for me again. I wasn't running away from you. You brought me out of the darkness, just as Papa kept me out of it."

"Christine . . ." Was all he could manage to say as he finally took her face in his hand, smoothing away her tears, even as they went on falling. Antoinette had told him she was afraid of fire. How could he have forgotten! Even if he'd remembered, he never would have guessed the extent of it and cursed his temper for once again harming his rose. He marvelled at the patience with which she had borne these sorrows – and the ones he had inflicted.

"There's more." His movements stilled, wondering what else she could have gone through.

"Papa died saving my life, saving me from the fire. If it hadn't been for me, I doubt it would have taken two hours, let alone two days. Well, if it hadn't been for me, I know he would have managed to get out somehow."

"He died for you. Do not wish yourself gone, Christine. You are too precious for that." He commanded, taking a firm hold of her shoulders to emphasise the point. This time, he did not ignore her wince. As he released her, she went on.

"He didn't get his wish." He looked at her, confused by her words, uncertain that he wanted an explanation. "He tried to keep me out of reach of the flames, but not even the threat of what they could do could keep him from mine. I couldn't help but think it our last, so not even that fire could keep him from my embrace. He had one good hand, because it was buried in the blankets as he held me."

Slowly, she unzipped her jacket and slid it off her right arm.

"He couldn't keep me from the flames, because the flames couldn't keep me from him."

Her masked companion took in the sight of her arm, his mouth falling open in undisguised shock at the scars that traced their way up her delicate flesh. Of its own volition, one of his hands reached to touch them, unable to believe it. He stopped a hair's breadth from her, realising what he was doing. Taking a gentle hold of him, she traced his fingers along the path one of the larger scars took. When she let go, he continued the path up her arm and across her shoulder.

Their faces were mere inches apart as he looked into her eyes, the blue orbs holding tears; but these were of a different sort.

"Why?" He whispered harshly. "Why didn't you tell me? Why have I never seen . . .?"

"I became skilled with make-up." She replied softly, not daring to answer the other question.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She shut her eyes, unable to look away as he held her head in his hands once more. By the silent command of his fingers, she opened them again, whispering brokenly,

"The mannequin." He released her, leaning back, stunned. "You demand perfection in our lessons. When I saw . . . that, I thought you wanted the same perfection in me. I'm not that beautiful and I was so afraid of disappointing you, I couldn't tell you." His head snapped up with the start of her last sentence. Realising what it was she needed, he allowed his own desires some small release by folding her gently in his arms. With her seated on his lap, her head against his chest and her arms clinging onto him, he was in ecstasy, but did not allow himself to surrender to the moment. She needed him.

"You are beautiful, Christine, and I will not have it said otherwise." He told her fiercely. Raising her head, she risked looking into his eyes, and found there only the adoration she had come to treasure in him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she whispered a thank you to him as he held her, finally able to drown in the sensation of his Christine willingly being in his arms.

At length, he felt her breathing slow and even out. Before she could doze off completely, he picked her up and carried her back to the swan bed. She looked at him bleary-eyed in question.

"It has been a long night, my dear. You need to rest." He stopped and looked at her, saying with mock severity: "And this time, I insist." She smiled and put her head on his shoulder in the crook of his neck.

"Yes, my Angel."

This time when he laid her down, her eyes were on him, filled with contentment. As her hand fell from around his shoulder, it brushed against his jaw slightly – but not accidentally. Taking that hand before it fell to the covers; he tenderly pressed a kiss to it before bidding her a final good night.

As he rose to leave, Christine's gaze drifted and she caught sight of the candles. Clutching hold of his hand before it could leave hers; she turned pleading eyes to him as he looked at her in concern.

"Stay." She whispered.

"Christine?"

"Please stay with me. I won't have to fear the dark if you're here." He searched her face, refusing to read too much into her request. As if to reassure him, she tugged slightly on his hand.

"You know what you ask?" She nodded. "I doubt that your guardian will approve."

"You're my Angel. I trust you. So does she; or she wouldn't have told you."

Tentatively, he lay down as she shuffled over a little, allowing him room, but never letting go of his hand. They lay silently for a while, the air filled with tension.

"What did your father do to keep nightmares away?" He eventually asked, knowing it was not simply the dark she feared, but what was in it, and knowing it might help her sleep – because otherwise what was left of the night would be long indeed.

"He let me fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. That way I knew I hadn't lost him."

"You feared that?" 'Even before the fire' went unspoken in the air as he looked at her.

"When he told me stories of the Angel of Music, he always ended them with a promise that when he was in heaven, he would send me the Angel of Music. Then I'd say that I wouldn't trade him for the Angel, even if he did grant me Music. On bad nights though – usually if I'd been thinking about Mama – his promise made me afraid that I would lose him, so I'd usually end up sneaking into his room. He'd pretend to be asleep, but I always felt him kiss my head before I dozed off." Again, her smile was a teary one.

Without a word, he lifted her slightly, slowly guiding her over a little. Reading his face, her eyes asked him, checking she wasn't mistaken. Silently, he gave his consent. Shifting the rest of the way, she moved so that her torso was half on top of him. Placing her head on his chest, her ear over his heart, she smiled as she rested her hand on his arm.

She lifted her head and placed another kiss against his unmasked cheek, bidding her Angel a final good night. Lowering her head to its human pillow, she missed the single tear that welled up in his eye. Before she finally succumbed to the immense tiredness the night had wrought on her, she did not miss the way his arms wrapped around her, securing her in his protective embrace.

And she was certain she didn't dream the pair of lips that softly pressed against her hair.


	59. Chapter 58

**Author's Note: Thanks to Soignante, Lady Winifred, Dragonsdaughter1, Lothiel, KyrieofAccender, mikabronxgirl, terber, jtbwriter and Busanda for their latest reviews.**

**Well, here's the second half of the double update as promised. I was hoping to make it a bit longer, but the direction I was taking it just isn't going to work any time soon, and I'm tired. However, to make up for the recent lengths of chapters (or lack thereof), I have done some editing you may be interested in. In response to a number of comments, I have rewritten Chapters 46-49, and no longer lean on the ALW dialogue. So if you sent one of those comments, or you're interested, they've now been updated, having been just about approved by my wonderful Beta (who hopefully won't be too cross that I posted without warning). No major plot changes, just (hopefully) better writing. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 58

He awoke to the strangest sensations.

First, he was lying on something so soft and smooth; it could only be the swan bed. But he never – or at least very rarely – slept there. Having been 'brought up' in the harshest of circumstances, sleeping on a soft bed was not something he was accustomed to. Even when he had found the means to have a proper bed, he had never been able to get any real rest, and so didn't often sleep there. It was more a sign of his wealth and better circumstances that he enjoyed its presence, rather than for its use. That, and the rare times he actually needed sleep, he would usually find himself waking up at the organ or in his workroom.

Secondly, something was lying on him so soft and smooth, it could only be . . . Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw a mass of golden hair spread out across his chest, the locks on his skin where his shirt had fallen open slightly were finer than the silk sheets. He looked further down and saw the shapely, petite body he held. And he saw the badly scarred arm.

He couldn't believe it. Was there anything his rose had not been through? That she felt the loss of her beloved father keenly was evident enough. To lose him in such a way, and be forced to face a reminder of it each time the sun set, or a flame was ignited: it more than explained the sorrow that she had worn in that first couple of months of silence. Where had she acquired the grace she had borne it with though? There was much of it he could understand, having experienced it for . . .

Why had she done it? She had lived through horrors not unlike those that littered his own wretched existence. Why had she removed his mask, his protection from the world's degradation and scorn? Was it to mock him in return for being lied to, for being manipulated by him? Or like most, was it simply to satisfy her own curiosity?

Surely it could not be the case. If she sought to hurt him, why did she seek him for comfort? Because her father was gone, and he was her father's promised 'angel'. He was a teacher, a comforter, a guardian. Nothing more.

As she stirred, he froze. There were worse fates than being solely her mentor. He had lived enough of them to know that. Just as long as he was not denied for another, perhaps he might be able to bear it. And so long as she did not wake to think he had taken advantage of her. There had been too many occasions already where he had risked losing her. He racked his brain to think of something to say that would calm her as she slowly lifted her head and turned it to him, her face filled with confusion.

* * *

She was having the most wonderful dream. 

Her angel could see her scars, and she still felt beautiful. There were flames and darkness all around, yet she felt safe and secure. Neither was reaching for her, because the arms of another were wrapped around her. She felt herself waking and frowned, not wanting such wonderful sensations to end. Shifting a little, she tried to make herself more comfortable. Her leg brushed against silk, her arm moved along something soft to the touch, yet firm underneath. And her head was resting on something warm and solid.

Opening her eyes, she saw white. Looking around a little, she saw candles, red silk, and a pair of black-clad legs.

She was lying on top of a man.

Without moving, she looked around as much as she could; she recognised the now familiar bedroom. It hadn't been as much of a dream as she thought. Then, did that mean . . .? She lifted her head and turned to find her angel staring back. It was true. The confusion lifted from her face, and raised a smile with it.

"Good morning, my Angel." A great weight seemed to have lifted, for his face lightened and he seemed to relax as he replied.

"Good morning, my dear. Although I believe 'afternoon' would be more accurate."

"What?" She asked propping herself up on her elbows a little, though she remained above him and in his hold.

"It was a long evening for you, and difficult."

"Well, closing performances are supposed to be memorable." She offered, having considered it. "How do you know it's afternoon? I don't remember seeing a clock."

"The air down here changes, depending on what time of day it is."

"Oh."

He didn't mention that she was currently resting on his pocket watch, for fear that she would move. For her sake, he ignored that her current position made her vest top more revealing than it otherwise should have been, but he did not have the strength of will to do both that and ignore the closeness she seemed intent on prolonging.

Lowering her head, she returned to her previous position, unwilling to move and end this strange new delight. Somehow, it was even better that it the heartbeat she listened to was her Angel's instead of her father's. A small frown creased her brow, unwilling to take the notion that there was someone dearer to her than her father, but unable to deny it. The frown melted into a small smile as she felt a hand shift from holding her to softly stroking her hair.

"Christine?" She raised her head, concerned by the thickness in her Angel's voice.

"Why . . . why did you . . ." His hold on her seemed to have tightened as he tried to find the words. Searching his face, she realised what it was.

"Why did I take off your mask?" She whispered. He just looked at her. Clearly she had found the right question, and he was waiting for the answer.

"'Too long have we stayed in the shadows'." She answered at length, confusing him. This showed, so she explained.

"I thought you were letting me. When you lifted your head, I thought you knew about this," she said, raising her scarred arm from where it rested beside him, "I thought it was your way of trusting me. Angel, please believe me: I never would have taken it from you otherwise.

"When they released me from the hospital, before I came to the Ravelle, the scars had healed enough that I wasn't meant to wear the bandages, but they were still angry. I know what it's like, having someone you trust take the mask away. A supposed friend of mine did it to me. She was trying to find an article for the school paper and thought I'd be a good story, even though I was mute at the time."

"Did you forgive her?" He asked quietly.

"Not while I was there. I sent her a letter a few weeks ago, saying that I had."

"It took you that long?" What had happened to his gentle rosebud, or did she have thorns after all?

"Yes. That's why I was so surprised when you said you'd forgiven me." Smiling, she continued, "You really are an angel." Gently, he pushed her aside, sitting up with his back to her.

"I am no angel, Christine. Angels do not lie, manipulate or terrify those they claim to protect."

Putting a hand on his shoulder, she turned him to face her where she now sat.

"You are _my_ angel. My father promised me the Angel of Music, but he sent me someone better." He stared at her, dumbfounded as she held the unmasked side of his face. "You have the gift of Music that can only be heaven-sent, and you _know_ me. You know what I have gone through, you understand me in a way no-one has other than my parents, and you still watch over me, even after I hurt you. Man or Phantom, you are _my_ angel."

"Christine-"

"You only terrified me when I thought I was losing you."

"And yet you were repulsed by me." He said bitterly, trying to turn away once more. Not that she let him. When she was certain that she had his attention, she finished what she had begun the previous night.

"It took me the longest time to look myself in the mirror after the fire. All I saw in the reflection was what had taken my father. But eventually I realised what these scars are. They aren't the mark of the flames: they're marks of love. They're a sign of the love I have for my father because I have them, and they're a sign of the love he has for me because they aren't any worse."

Lightly she brushed the back of her hand against his mask. By the time he realised and had caught her hand, it was resting against the leather cheek.

"It wasn't terror. You reminded me of Papa, of what he promised. He sent me an Angel who understood _all_ that I am. He sent me an Angel who wouldn't just visit, like the Angel of Music." The last part, she said with hope, and as more of a question.

"Christine," he breathed in reverence, "I will not leave you. You honour me too much for that. But I do not understand all that you are. The devotion you show to your family is something I have never known." He ended slightly bitterly, thinking once more of Katie, of all that he had said and thought of her, even though she had kept her promise after all.

"Then let me teach you." His eyes snapped back to hers.

"What can you teach your mentor, Christine?" The humour in his voice was obvious, but she was not deterred. Rising a little, she wrapped her arms around him so that her head rested on top of his.

"What it is to be treasured." He returned the embrace, unable to recall a time when he had been such a willing student.


	60. Chapter 59

**Author's Note: Thanks to KyrieofAccender, Soignante, Busanda, Rose of Night, mikabronxgirl, scarletghost13, montaquecat (double thanks), Lady Winifred, treblmaker7, mildetryth (major thanks and welcome back!), steelelf, Spectralprincess (double thanks), Passed Over and LorieOh for their latest reviews.**

**Sorry for the delay, but I HATE writing filler, so I was kind of put off writing anything for a little while. However, I think I know what's happening next, so I should be a bit more encouraged. And there was a slight delay when I found out I owed you a double update - had to get it written. Well, without further ado/delay/me babbling/whatever, here's the first of two chapters for you. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 59

Though he had been delighted at her disappointment when he'd suggested they return that night, he had nevertheless insisted. She did have classes to attend which, although hopelessly inadequate compared to what he could teach, were something of a necessity. That and he knew that if she stayed too long, he would not be able to let her leave, especially after all that had transpired between them over the course of _Hannibal's_ run.

When he had finally broken Christine's sweet embrace – and was certain his tears had long since dried – he had suggested one of their music lessons after they had eaten. He still couldn't believe it: never before in his life had he shed tears of joy. When Katie had found him, shown him the first scrap of kindness he had ever known, his tears had been of immense . . . relief, as though the cage his monstrosity of a face forced him into had finally been opened. In Christine's embrace, it was though he had at last been able to step free of those bars and into the warm light that was his rose's smile. No matter how many times she called him 'Angel', he could never hope to emulate that quality as she did.

They had spent the rest of the day in music lessons which had consisted of the usual vocal exercises, and an introduction to _Il Muto_ – the next show the Ravelle would be producing – which he was pleasantly surprised to discover she already knew, as had been the case with _Hannibal_.

"Either you have a rather more diverse taste in music than I had anticipated, or you somehow managed to find the time during rehearsals to read the score." He commented.

"Or I had a very encouraging father." Turning from the music to look at her, he was surprised that for the first time, she mentioned her lost parent with such ease. "As soon as we got the letter, saying I'd been invited to audition, he got in contact with Madame Giry. Papa insisted I was at least familiar with every opera and show on their shortlist for the next two years."

"A lot of work in such a short space of time." He commented, a slight criticism evident in his voice at the pressure that must have been on her with such a workload, coupled with the audition.

"From as far back as I can remember I've at least been aware of how much work is involved in a stage production. It was his way of lightening the load – a little."

Uncertain of what to say in response to her breaking voice, he brushed his fingers against hers. Taking them, she gave them a gentle squeeze in gratitude. Their lesson contained many such fleeting touches and caresses. He was awed that she felt no fear in touching him; that she accepted him enough to both give and receive those brief contacts.

And it was these that leant him no hesitation in wrapping his cloak around her once they'd exited the main theatre. Again, he had used the way she knew as opposed to the passage that directly connected the two homes. He had no idea what state they would find the house in, given that with worrying about her he hadn't had chance to evict the intruders. She leaned against him slightly, grateful for the warmth – she was effectively still in her pyjamas after all. They kept to the shadows, remaining invisible as they made their way slowly back. Though she didn't know how he did it, she trusted him regardless, and never moved from his side.

Her hand covered her mouth as she choked back a horrified gasp.

Several of the downstairs windows were broken, the area immediately surrounding the house looked as though a herd of elephants had had a dance class recently, and the door was wide open, showing a little of the disarray inside.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to still her, but she tore herself from his grasp anyway and ran inside. Silently, he followed, his senses fixed on anything that could betray another presence within. Christine's blonde mane made her easy to follow in the darkness – not that she could have lost him anyway – and he was not surprised to find her down the little corridor he had plucked her from last night. Locking the door to the room she had obviously just been inside, she turned to him with a small smile, her eyes saying that everything was OK.

She did not receive the same encouragement from his gaze.

Approaching him, she silently asked what was wrong. Raising his head as though listening for something, he then lowered it so his lips were mere inches from Christine's ear. Obediently, she tipped her head slightly to better allow his communication.

"They may not have left yet." She froze in horror at the possibility. "Wait here. I will check this floor quickly." Receiving a nod of assent, he swiftly disappeared into the shadows. Christine leaned against the door, immediately wishing she had argued and stayed with him. But it seemed she never could argue with that voice. Relief flooded through her when he soon appeared by her side again – even if he did make her jump a bit.

Taking off her shoes and following his lead, they made their way silently up the stairs. She was somewhat disappointed when he didn't unlock the door she didn't have a key to; merely pressing it in a couple of places to satisfy himself that all was well. Turning her head to see that the same could be said of the rest of the floor, her eyes fell on the other set of stairs. They were littered, the carpet torn and marked with a few burns that were presumably from the cigarette stubs lying around. It was the first sign of real damage they'd seen, the mess on the ground floor once again being mostly superficial.

Realising what was up there, what they could have . . . unable to hold back the small cry, she ran up the stairs and down the corridor to her room.

His head whipped round as soon as he heard her. Following her with as much speed as he could, he found himself on the threshold of her room. But no Christine in sight. The room was in a shambles. Things had been tossed carelessly all over the place. Dirt and litter had been trodden in everywhere. He could barely see the floor, but based on the very few times he had seen the room since Christine had moved in, he knew it was through no fault of hers. Oddly enough, there was a further addition: a pile of boxes in front of the bed. And a rather familiar pair of feet, shifting about slightly. He was about to call to the owner of those feet, when the rest of her began to appear from under the bed.

Carefully tugging what turned out to be a worn, old violin case, she checked where it was fastened, and seeming satisfied that all was as it should be, began to gently dig through the contents of the pocket on the front. There was a rather prominent lump there, which she drew out. It was two boxes – one of which he recognised as containing the gift he had given her. She had been unable to wear the pendant during rehearsals or the performance. The past few days had been the only times he had seen her without it. The other box was older and vaguely familiar, though if asked, he would have been unable to say why.

She opened the newer of the two, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the pendant resting there, undamaged. As she took it out, she finally realised that she was not alone. Raising her head to his watchful stare, she held out the delicate silver chain, silently, tentatively asking the small favour. Slowly, he crossed the threshold – mindful of his promise to both his rose and her guardian – and knelt by her side, removing his gloves. She turned slightly, allowing him access to the back of her neck. Softly, he brushed aside the silken locks, resisting the urge to bury his hand or his nose in them, then took the proffered chain and fastened it about her neck, smoothing it out across her shoulders once it was secure, his hands lingering a moment longer than was necessary.

Thanking him with her eyes – hoping it would suffice as her breath seemed to have gone all of a sudden – she put a hand on his, silently granting him permission to stay; silently asking him to. He settled himself beside her, curious as to what lay in the other box. The caress she gave it was barely a whisper, not dissimilar to the ones he had given her in the past. She opened it as though afraid of what she would find within. The moonlight coming in through the window illuminated the small object.

It was Katie's ring.

There was only a short period of time when she had failed to wear it, and then the ring of another had been on her finger. With that exception, even during performances her finger had never been bare. Once more, tears shone in Christine's eyes.

"It was my mother's. She never took it off." Her voice was so ethereal, he wasn't certain who she was speaking to, or if she merely needed to say the words. They sat there a few moments; both thinking of the woman who used to wear the ring, the woman whom they had each lost, the woman they each wished they could see just once more.

At length, having watched a tear trace a glistening path slowly down her cheek, he lifted her right hand and reached for the ring. Asking permission with his eyes, she looked in wonderment, unconsciously nodding slightly. He took the silver band and gently slid it onto her ring finger. It was a perfect fit. The Celtic knotwork looked exquisite on her delicate hand; the silver against her pale flesh in the moon's glow looked unearthly. Much akin to the way she looked at him when he met her eyes. She was staring with . . . reverence? It was the same burning way she had looked at him as he had shown her the Music of the Night.

And it took his breath away.

He didn't understand what he had done, but he knew without a doubt that he would never take it back as Christine placed her lips against his cheek, lingering there longer than she had before. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and nestled her head just underneath his chin.

Oh no, he wouldn't be taking it back.

* * *

As he wrapped his arms around her, she let out yet another sigh. Though out of contentment for being in her Angel's protective embrace once more, it was laced with some confusion. Having her mother's ring on was a tremendous thing for her. It meant that her mother really was gone – something she had accepted quite a while ago – and it also meant that she was no longer a little girl. The ring of the O'Neill women was very important to those who wore it, and it was very rare for a man to ever have hold of it. For a man to put the ring on her finger was all of two steps from another kind of ring – one that went on the left hand. For that man to be her Angel; it was an unwitting reminder of the mannequin that he had so carefully kept hidden all the while she had been down there this last time. Was it the embodiment of his hopes for her? Was he this very moment wishing he had been placing that other kind of ring on her finger? Is that why his disappointment in her had been so marked when she had put off meeting with him? Did he expect her to feel the same way?

The questions raced around her mind until she felt her Angel's embrace tighten a little. With the exception of the first time they had met, when he had been weaving the spell of his music, he was always so hesitant to give any physical contact unless she encouraged him. Why had he been so confident then, but not now? Was it to do with . . . what she had done? She didn't know. All she knew was that she never felt so safe as she did in this moment, wrapped in her Angel's arms. In this moment she felt cherished, treasured. And she couldn't help but hope that she wasn't the only one.

* * *

Whether either of them realised it or not, with that one simple action, he had irrevocably bound her to him – and with a bond stronger than any that had previously been forged; a bond that neither of them would realise the power of until it was tested. 


	61. Chapter 60

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 60

At his insistence, Christine had agreed to stay with Madame Giry until the house was once again secure. She knew it wouldn't take long – it hadn't the last time, even if the damage had been significantly less. He had not told her the full extent of the mess downstairs, but she could tell from his stony countenance that it was bad. It had not taken her long to pack a few things together, including her father's violin with the two boxes tucked back inside the case. All the while, he had been stood just on the other side of the door. Even though she had allowed him in, still he kept his word. Had he asked her then if she'd doubted him, she would have answered "Never".

He looked at the case she carried with open curiosity.

"My treasures. If it hadn't been for the state I was in, I never would have left them behind last night." She explained. When he offered to carry her bag, he made no move to reach for the violin, seeing the way she clutched it to her.

Once more she found herself leaning against him as he wrapped his cloak around her – even though she had a jacket this time. They walked slowly to the Giry house; even though he had been insisting mere minutes before that she shouldn't be out late due to her classes.

"We shall continue with your lessons, but we will leave _Il Muto_ for another week. This last has been tiring for you and I will not have your voice strained."

"Thank you, my Angel."

"The role of the Countess will be challenging, although Elissa was, as a character, a good foundation."

"The Countess?" He stopped, and guessing at the doubt and confusion in her eyes, became her instructor once more.

"You will be playing the Countess. There is no other in the Ravelle as worthy of the role as you and there is no other in the Ravelle who will be playing the role in my Opera House." The words were spoken with such a steely conviction that she was once again reminded with the final sentiment that it was not only her Angel keeping her under his wing; she was also under the watch of the Opera Ghost. She also knew that there was no arguing with that tone of voice, so she remained silent – although somewhat anxious.

As they reached the Giry residence, Antoinette opened the door and met them outside, having seen them approaching.

"I saw what happened at the house. Meg is away tonight." She addressed each of them in turn. Christine noticed her Angel rolling his eyes, and then remembered Meg's stories of the dancers' after-show parties, which traditionally happened the night of each closing performance. Suffice to say it was a wonder the Ravelle still stood after seeing so many of them over the years. And that the Phantom would have his work cut out for him keeping the ballet rats in line.

It was with a good deal of reluctance on the part of more than one that Christine was relinquished into Madame Giry's care. Before he allowed her to be taken into the house, he took her hand and pressed one last kiss onto the smooth skin, their eyes exchanging the promise of a meeting tomorrow.

* * *

That last look of hers was the one he carried with him as he headed back towards the Ravelle. The ones she had worn the previous evening, the many different sides of terror; they were what fuelled him as he carried out his plan. He had been too lenient last time. They had gone too far in threatening his rose, and it was time they remembered whose Opera House this really was.

He fetched the necessary articles from his lair before beginning his search around the main theatre. When he spied the ballet girls making their usual faltering way around some of the darker corridors, he couldn't resist throwing his voice a little, and allowing a couple of them to spy the edge of his cape – the Ghost did have a reputation to maintain after all. That and their screaming flight would undoubtedly draw his prey to him.

Sure enough, it was only a matter of minutes before Joseph Buquet came creeping around the corner in what could only be described as a laughable attempt at stealth. The man had an incredible talent for finding every floorboard that squeaked – and those that didn't; he managed to tread on noisily anyway. As he shuffled nervously along the wall, his head darted around with every step. Though his desire was clear, even after all these years, he was still presented a very poor challenge. He served more as a comical relief, but all jokes wear thin over time, and he had proved to be too much of a nuisance of late.

Finally, after he had moved about 5 feet down the corridor; the fool was in the right place. A panel slid aside. He stumbled backwards, colliding with something solid. He didn't have chance to look up in fear. The blow to his head ensured that.

The dark figure looked down at his pathetic 'adversary', regarding him as one might regard a foreign insect under a microscope, debating whether to crush it or make further study of it. The old stagehand still had a purpose he could serve. That such creatures could be of use to him was almost degrading – but for the ends he would achieve. Christine was indeed worthy of it, and she had done nothing but prove that these last three days since he had revealed himself to her.

He dragged the still form down the tunnel and to the stage. Yes, he still had a purpose to serve. A message still needed to be sent. After all, the Opera Ghost was not one to be trifled with.

About an hour after he had returned to the theatre, having completed his 'errands', he began making his way back down to his lakeside home. Funny, when phrased that way, it sounded desirable. But for one recent visitor, the true state of affairs could not have been further from the truth.

He stopped. There was a light on in one of the principal dressing rooms. The ballet rats were on the other side of the theatre. Was the harpy acting out her delusions of grandeur? Fading back into the walls, he made his way to the back of the room and peered inside. Once more, he could have been knocked over by a feather at what he saw.

Sliding back the mirror, he moved over to the couch, his fingers a mere whisper against her skin.

"Christine?"

* * *

The moment Mother Giry shut the door; Christine knew her Angel was gone. Even though they would be having a lesson tomorrow, strangely it didn't feel right to her, not having him there. Mechanically, she made her way up to the room she usually stayed in and took out the few things she needed.

She turned to see her guardian in the door, tears streaming down her face. Worried, she rushed over to her, placing her arms around the usually severe ballet mistress.

"Oh, my child. You are so like your mother." She whispered, taking Christine's right hand and running her fingers over the ring that rested there. Antoinette and Katie had been the closest friends, having worked at the same theatre for many years. Antoinette had always said Christine would grow to be the image of her mother. But for her hair and the colour of her eyes, that had proved true. Seeing the O'Neill ring finally gracing her hand had made her see the friend she had lost so long ago.

"He put it on my finger." Christine said quietly. Looking her second mother in the eye, she begged for an answer, though she dared not ask the question.

"He could not know all that it means."

"I do."

"Christine, do you-?"

"I don't know." She answered helplessly. Deciding not to press her, seeing as she had been through enough the last few days, Antoinette put her straight to bed. Her judgement was proved right when her daughter was fast asleep by the time she had left the room.

Fifteen minutes later, she was running with a speed that belied her limp as Christine let out the most horrific screams she had ever heard. The girl was thrashing about in the bed, her fingers clawing at anything that touched her, even her clothes. Antoinette took hold of her arms in an effort to still them and prevent her doing herself an injury. It took all of her strength, and she had to lie on top of her. Still, her second daughter thrashed around. Still she screamed. Antoinette had never been so thankful their detached house was out of the way and well-insulated. She called out her name, trying to wake her. To no avail. Closing her eyes and quickly begging forgiveness from Catherine and Charles, Antoinette drew back one of her hands and struck Christine across the face.

Silence.

Only when she looked at her with any clarity, did the elder woman move to sit on the bed. As usually happened following her nightmares, Christine's face was horribly white – except for the reddening handprint. And as usually happened: it was not thirty seconds before she was in her second mother's arms, sobbing.

At length, when the worst was passed, Christine lifted her head and asked,

"Do you still have a key to the theatre?"

"Christine-"

"Please? I won't be able to sleep anywhere else." Antoinette looked at her daughter, knowing what she was asking, wondering what this would lead to in his eyes.

"And if he isn't there?"

"It's his Opera House. I'll be fine." Christine answered quietly.

"You trust him so much?" She couldn't help but be concerned at the wonder in her guardian's voice. Was her Angel not worth trusting so completely? Even as she was driven to the theatre, still it bothered her. It was only when Antoinette slid the key into her hand and gave her a tiny smile that she felt reassured.

She made her way to her dressing room. She didn't attempt to call to him – he must need rest as well. Turning on the light, she was grateful for the warm glow the room pervaded as she curled up on the couch. It was comfy, and already she felt better, knowing she was in her Angel's domain.

The nightmares were not something she'd needed to fear last night – her Angel had been looking after her. Without him though, they were made all the worse for what had happened at the house. And without him, there was no one to save her from the darkness. Here at least, she could feel his presence. Here at least, she felt . . . home.

She had barely dozed off for a few moments when she was awoken by a heavenly voice calling to her – a voice she would know anywhere.

"Angel?" Her eyes fluttered open as she answered. Sure enough, knelt beside her, his hand brushing against the right side of her face was her dark angel.

"Christine, what are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep. Did I disturb you?" She answered with a whisper. He frowned at the hoarseness she spoke with.

"Of course not. What is wrong?" His hand moved to her throat, as though his fingers could brush away the hurt. She wouldn't have been surprised if they had.

"I was having my old nightmares. They were worse this time. Mother Giry leant me her key."

"Surely your guardian would be able to comfort you." What had Antoinette been thinking?

"That's why I came here." He looked at her in astonishment, momentarily unable to fathom what she was saying. "I didn't want to disturb you, but I knew you were here somewhere. I thought I'd be able to sleep better . . . because of that." Her voice trailed off as she lowered her eyes, worried that she'd been too presumptuous, too hasty.

Her fears were confirmed as he stood and moved away from her. Eventually daring to risk looking at him, she had to do a double-take when she saw him stood in the mirror, holding out his hand – just as he had three nights ago, the first time she'd seen him. He was impeccably dressed, as he had been then, and she was an absolute mess. But she didn't care. Her face broke into the biggest smile she could manage as she jumped up off the couch and moved to take the outstretched hand. When he frowned, she stopped, wondering what she had done now.

"Who did this?" He asked, his voice filled with thunder even as he kept it quiet. As his hand covered the red finger marks on her left cheek that had previously been hidden by her hair, she couldn't help the wince. For someone so petite, Antoinette was an incredibly strong woman. She couldn't answer at first – she'd never heard his voice like that before. Usually his anger was cold and steely; if there had been any doubt about his voice, she could see in his eyes that this anger smouldered and burned.

"Who did this?" He repeated more urgently.

"Mother Giry." At her quiet response, he lowered his hand and moved towards the dressing room door. She blocked his path.

"Christine, I will not allow anyone to harm you. Even her." He explained, trying to move her aside.

"Would you rather I lost my voice again?" That stopped him. "I told you; the nightmare was worse this time. It's only ever been the last resort, but I'd rather this," she said, gesturing to the swollen skin that was beginning to bruise, "than lose my voice and have to endure those dreams any longer."

"Oh, Christine." He whispered, not knowing what else to say as the fire faded. This time when he put his hand on her cheek, though it hurt a little, it was bliss. "Come, you need your rest, and you will not be able to maintain the correct stance tomorrow if you have a stiff neck." He said, nodding his head in the direction of the couch as though it were the most offending thing in the world.

"Yes, my Angel." Smiling, she took his offered hand once more. And once more, she found herself spellbound as he led her down to his home. But this was not a spell of music, nor the black magic of fear: it was the magic of contentment that can only be woven by a select few – it was the magic of coming home.

When he helped her into the boat and had pushed off from the little dock, Christine turned back to him and tentatively spoke:

"Angel, may I ask you something." She tried to suppress the shiver as the atmosphere dropped a couple of degrees at his displeasure, obviously remembering the last time she had asked him that. How did he do that?

"Very well." She hated it when his voice was so devoid of feeling. It was almost as though he was no longer her Angel, as though he no longer wished to be.

"I'm sorry; it's just that I've been wondering something for a while." He looked down at her, silently commanding her to ask and get it over with.

"Why is there a lake down here?"


	62. Chapter 61

**Author's Note: Apologies for the delay, been having a spot of bother with the internet lately. We got this new gizmo that's meant to make life easier, and of course, I haven't been able to get online half the time as a result. Don't you just love technology? Anyway, this chapter was written with all good intentions of being posted yesterday, but that's why it was delayed, so thanks for your patience.**

**Thanks to Soignante, treblmaker7, KyrieofAccender (double thanks), jtbwriter, scarletghost13, Rose of Night (double thanks), CarolROI, Lady Winifred (double thanks), montaquecat (double thanks), mildetryth, Busanda (double thanks), Spectralprincess (double thanks) and jeevesandwooster for their latest reviews. 4 more and you get another chapter today, guys! Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 61

The traditional congratulatory speech given by the Dean after the close of a production was delayed by a rather unusual – though for some, not entirely unsurprising – turn of events. The performers had been called in early to collect their belongings from their assigned dressing rooms, the crew having already taken their things after the final performance. Everyone else was to gather in the theatre for the afore-mentioned speech.

When Christine arrived in the theatre – taking longer than most since she had woken late – it was to find everyone gathered around the stage giggling. One of the sets from another production had been pulled down to fill the stage. The backdrop was basically a wall with windows in it. Through one of the windows lay Joseph Buquet in such a way as made him look like he'd been half-thrown through it. His legs were still half in the window and written in blood red ink on what had at some long forgotten time been a white shirt was the word:

_Trespasser_

Though it was not signed with the expected 'O.G.', the large red skull seal on Buquet's forehead made the author of the message unmistakeable. He began to stir, cursing up a storm against the Ghost as he woke. When he tried to get his legs out of the window to stand up, his trousers caught on the broken set piece, and his ensuing struggles turned the giggles into full blown laughter. As he danced about – there was no other word for it, especially not on the stage – a familiar piece of paper fell out from where it had been lodged in his jacket.

"What is going on here?" Dr Poligny roared above the commotion.

Everyone obediently fell silent, moving aside as he walked to the stage. When he reached Buquet, he didn't ask for an explanation, merely looked him over in weary distaste. Seeing as no one else had yet dared, and knowing it would be better than if he were to ask, Meg picked up the note and quietly handed it to the Dean. He scanned the lines, and other than his lips parting slightly for a moment, he exhibited no reaction to the contents.

Tucking the missive carefully into his pocket, he turned to Madame Giry, who nodded.

"Well, since everyone is present, I have a few things to say. First of all, allow me to congratulate all of you on three magnificent performances. Many of the people I have spoken to have said how professional it was and were astonished that the majority of the work was done by our students. A very well done to the first years: the induction year at the Ravelle is by no means an easy one. This is deliberate, as we only expect the best from all of your courses are designed to bring that out in you.

"Secondly, I believe special congratulations are in order for Miss Daaë who stepped in at the last minute to play the lead. An excellent job was done, particularly given such short notice." Prompted by the Dean, everyone gave Christine another round of applause, causing her to blush at the unexpectedness of it. Although, when she looked at the Dean, his knowing look filled her with disquiet.

"Third and finally, with our managers' consent, I would like to announce our next production, which you will begin work on today. The board and the theatre managers have selected _Il Muto_ by Albrizzio. And in order teach and challenge you further, each member of the various departments shall be learning every aspect of the opera that applies to them. Which means, performers, the parts will not be allocated for quite some time, so I expect you all to work hard and earn them, for that is the merit by which they will be given.

"Once again, congratulations, everyone. For a first performance it was exceptional. I can scarce imagine what the next will be like when you exceed it."

Everyone politely applauded as he left the stage. Before he did so, he said something quietly to Joseph Buquet, which caused the Master of the Flies' face to fall. He also stopped by Christine before leaving the theatre.

"Miss Daaë, a word in my office after morning class."

The last time she had been called in before the Dean, she had effectively been on trial for assaulting Carlotta. Now, she really was worried. What had been in the note? The memory of another came back to her. She knew that her Angel objected to Raoul, but why would he go behind her back to warn him away? Didn't he trust her, in spite of all that she'd said? Provided he hadn't changed too much over the years, then there was little chance Raoul would leave her alone if he thought she was in trouble. Ever since they'd met, he'd taken great delight in 'rescuing' her from the many scrapes they'd get into as children.

For all that she adored her Angel; she couldn't help but be wary of the Opera Ghost. She had understood the message that had been Buquet and like most, knew exactly who had sent it. But when the urge to giggle had subsided, she had been a little alarmed that her Angel had actually done such a thing. She knew he had been angry about Halloween – it had been clear in his tone of voice during their lessons immediately after. Though she hadn't known the connection between her Angel and the Ghost, it was nevertheless clear that something had bothered him at the time.

She pushed aside these thoughts, disturbed slightly by the direction they were taking. Man or Phantom, he was still her angel. That she needed the reassurance after all that had happened made her feel as though she'd betrayed him yet again – which she couldn't allow. It had been clear that he still feared as much from her last night when she'd asked her question.

She had never heard such a wonderful laugh before.

What he had been expecting, she did not know, but at least she had defied those anxieties of his. Their journey to his lair had continued accompanied by his answer. The founders of the Ravelle had chosen a picturesque location because they hoped the surrounding forests, hills and river would inspire their students. When the land was surveyed, it turned out that the desired site was partially above a cave network that was still in use by cavers. Most of the caves were blocked off when work began – which had proved to be rather useful for obvious reasons. The lake had come from a subsidiary of the river, hence the passageways the boat had travelled along. It had been stopped when the caves had been blocked off, but was easily remedied, meaning the lair had a constant freshwater supply.

The way he explained it all though – how long had he lived down here? Granted, she knew what solitude was, what it was to cut oneself off from the world; but to go to such extremities? She could not have asked for a better angel had he actually been divine: he knew what she had gone through, and better than she could imagine – or ever want to imagine.

He was her Angel.

That was the thought that pushed her disquiet aside and allowed her to focus on what was left of Gardiner's introduction to _Il Muto_. She had lost a good portion of it to her thoughts, but from the sounds of things, most of it had already been covered in her lesson yesterday, so it wasn't too great a problem.

When the class ended, Gardiner took her aside to once again congratulate her.

"I must confess: I was quite simply astonished by your performance, Miss Daaë. Why have we never seen such talent in class, or even during the Christmas Concert?"

"I'd only recently recovered my voice, and I still had a lot to learn at Christmas."

"But why have there been no signs of that progress in class?"

"I guess there was something about being on that stage that brought it out of me." He seemed to accept her answer, knowing what it was to perform before one's peers and to perform before an audience.

"Miss Daaë, I think I ought to warn you: in spite of recommendations in your favour, including my own, there is little that can be done to secure the lead for you in _Il Muto_. I say this because I truly believe you have proven in more ways than one that you are the most deserving student for the role."

"But the Guidacelli's need placating because their support is valuable to the Institution." It probably would have been his job if Gardiner had said anything in reply to that, but his look was enough.

"Ordinarily, Miss Guidacelli would have been suspended for walking out the way she did, but her mother has . . . persuaded the board that given the circumstances, her actions were the only sensible course her daughter could have taken." She heard the warning in his voice, he obviously having been aware of the rivalry Carlotta felt towards her.

"Thank you for letting me know, Professor." Turning to leave, she was stopped by him once more.

"Miss Daaë, my compliments to your vocal teacher. He has done an incredible job."

"Thank you, Professor. I'll make sure he knows."

"Might I ask: who is he? I may know of him." He asked carefully.

"He's an old friend of the family, but I don't think you'll have heard his name." He let her go, realising she obviously had somewhere she needed to be.

Breathing a sigh of relief – something she seemed to be doing a lot of lately – Christine began making her way over to the Dean's office. It being on the other side of campus in the original building, she had plenty of time to think.

Did Gardiner suspect about the Ghost? Of course he did. He had been worried at Christmas because of the interest the Ghost had shown in her, which had obviously not diminished. When asked during the _Hannibal_ dress rehearsal, she'd said she didn't know her teacher's name. It was true, so it hadn't been a lie when she'd told Gardiner he wouldn't recognise it. The managers had obviously resented giving her the part because of the Ghost's support. Gardiner was worried about her because of it. And what the students thought she couldn't imagine – although in one Prima Donna's case, it was pretty obvious. But how could she tell her Angel that not everything he was doing for her was helping? Whenever she had raised even the slightest objection to something he'd done in the past, it had not been a pleasant experience, to say the least. To drop a bombshell like that . . . it was not a conversation she wanted any part in.

A lot like the one awaiting her behind the well-polished door of the office she found herself before.


	63. Chapter 62

**Author's Note: Thanks to Lady Winifred,Spectralprincess, jtbwriter, LorieOh, TalithaJ, KyrieofAccender, terbear and Rose of Night for their latest reviews. And seeing as we've hit yet another target, I'm ever so thankful I had this chapter ready for you. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 62

Thankfully, this time it was just Dr Poligny. She hadn't thought much of Mr. Debienne the last time, and was grateful for his absence. Dr Poligny had seemed at least willing to listen to her, unlike his colleague who appeared to be more of a finances man and had therefore been biased towards the Guidacellis.

When she was seated in front of him, he took a very familiar piece of paper from out of his pocket and slid it across the desk to her. Once more, she found herself grateful for the months of silence when she'd schooled herself to be both extremely expressive and unreadable with her face. Revealing nothing in her features, she took the white parchment, attempted to ignore the startling red skull and began to read the contents.

_Dr Poligny,_

_Unfortunately, it is with great sorrow I find myself writing to you once more. In the time that you have served here at the Ravelle, you have allowed the Institute to flourish and be somewhat worthy of the reputation it claims. You have also respected my advice and wishes as they have been presented to you, for which I am honoured and remain ever grateful._

_However, the same cannot be said of your colleagues, your staff, or your students; something which the following two matters will illustrate. You are aware of the traditional Halloween 'Ghost Hunts', a tiresome exercise, albeit one of the few I indulge the students in for the sake of my reputation. You will also remember the damaging turn the latest of these Hunts took, and my anger at the situation._

_I find that anger has returned and with greater cause: another took place last night, not part of any tradition, but undertaken with malicious and harmful intent to both property and person. Much more damage was inflicted on my house, which insubordination, you will understand, I cannot tolerate._

_The other matter that should concern you is that one of your students was in residence at the time. Thankfully, said student was removed before any physical harm could befall them, though I cannot vouch for mental or emotional damage. Your student will undoubtedly wish to return, although sadly, the house is at present in no fit condition for that._

_I have dealt with the main perpetrators, and trust this will be the last incident of its kind. Should this behaviour continue, I will not be so forgiving in the future._

_I trust the damage will be repaired swiftly, and remain your humble servant,_

_O.G._

"He always sends a note after performances and at the beginning and end of each academic year. I can probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of notes I've received from the Ghost other than that." Seeing her surprised expression, he elaborated, "Yes, I believe in the Ghost, Miss Daaë. Granted, it took some time before I did, but I was inevitably convinced of his presence. He has done the Ravelle a lot of good with his 'advice' over the years, in spite of the obvious downside.

"Miss Daaë, as I said, I rarely receive unexpected notes from the Ghost, but when I do, I usually act on them. I kept this concealed from the others, as I don't believe the contents would do anyone any good were they to be made known. I've spoken to Joseph Buquet, and I know he led the hunt. He shall be dealt with officially. I've also spoken to Madame Giry, and she tells me that you are the student who lives in the house mentioned in the letter. Now don't be alarmed, tell me first of all: are you alright?"

She was stunned. The Dean of the Ravelle actually sounded like he was on the Ghost's side.

"Miss Daaë?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine."

"These lines that mention you suggest-"

"I know. It just stirred up a few memories. I'll be alright in a few days." He nodded, looking at her carefully.

"Since the house is uninhabitable at the moment, am I to assume you have made alternative arrangements?" Christine's face softened as she thought what had already happened thanks to the 'alternative arrangements'.

"Yes. I'm staying with Madame Giry again."

"Good. Now, I think it's safe to say that our Mr. Buquet led the 'Hunt' last night, based on what we found this morning. Do you know if anyone else was involved?"

Christine fidgeted uncomfortably, guessing how it would sound if she answered that. When he prompted her again, she spoke.

"I recognised a few of the stage hands. I think they work directly under Mr. Buquet, but I couldn't tell you their names."

"Anyone else?"

"Carlotta Guidacelli." She said quietly. "I know it must sound terrible, my naming her, after everything that's happened, but I swear I'm telling the truth."

"I believe you. I wanted to hear it from you of your own volition before I told you."

"Told me what?"

"Miss Guidacelli went to collect her things this morning, but her dressing room had been vandalised."

"Vandalised?"

"The mirrors were broken, her pictures and music torn. The only things in the room that weren't damaged was the furniture that had originally been there. It was too carefully done to be anyone without deliberate cause and purpose. Her wall was inscribed with the word 'violator' in a similar fashion to Buquet's . . . 'message'.

"Miss Daaë, I do not believe you had a hand in this and Madame Giry has vouched for you, but we have received several notes from the Ghost in your favour, which I'd have to say, based on your performances, I fully understand. But the notes also speak very negatively of giving Miss Guidacelli any kind of prominent role, so based on the circumstances, I have to ask, do you know who the Opera Ghost is? Please think carefully before you answer."

"No."

"You are certain?"

"I don't know the Opera Ghost." He considered her a few moments, wondering why she had changed the wording.

"May I enquire as to your vocal coach, aside from Professor Gardiner? I understand he's done tremendous work with you. Perhaps he could benefit some of our other students."

"He's an old friend of my family. I'll be sure to pass that on."

"An old friend of the family? How is it you claimed not to know his name?"

"I've always addressed him by title, rather than name. I met him through my father. It'd feel strange to ask his name after so long."

"Very well." They sat there in silence a few moments, regarding each other, considering the conversation.

"Miss Daaë, before I let you get back to your work, there is one last thing: as I've said, I receive very few unexpected notes from the Ghost. I like to believe there is a healthy respect between the two of us, which is why whenever I do receive a missive of this nature; I try to be discreet about any action I take. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

He finally dismissed her. Calmly, she walked away from the old building, across the campus and back to the main theatre. Halfway through her walk, she spied the hint of a shadow out of the corner of her eye. Resisting the temptation to look, knowing she wouldn't see anything, she continued on, somewhat reassured by the idea that he would be waiting when she got there.

Shutting the door behind her, she closed her eyes, revelling in the peace her sanctuary brought. When she opened them again, he was stood before her.

"Did you . . . did you really . . .?" Knowing what she wanted to ask, he answered.

"I do not allow anyone to harm what is mine, Christine." He spoke with such conviction and such a look in his eyes that Christine couldn't help but think he wasn't talking about the house.

"You lied about me." Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the situation, she simply looked at him, using his trick of silence to get an explanation. "You said you didn't know the Opera Ghost."

"I don't." His turn to be silent. "I only know my Angel."

"Christine, they are one and the same." His voice rose in frustration. Whilst there were many aspects of him that he would rather she didn't know; were she to ignore that one obvious side, then he stood a greater risk of losing her in the long run.

"I know. But I only know my Angel. You've hardly ever been the Ghost to me." It was true. Rarely had he ever allowed his darker side to surface around her. If there was any beauty to be found in his soul, she brought it out into the light.

"You said I was an old friend of the family."

"What else would you call my Father's promised Angel?" Feeling confident in the direction the conversation had taken, she finally approached him. "Angel, I won't lie about you, but I won't betray you again." Looking down into her eyes, filled with sincerity, he couldn't help but believe her, though everything within him was screaming not to trust in the beautiful words.

"Angel, did you overhear Professor Gardiner today?" Christine asked, finally sitting down.

"Yes, his rendition of the 'essentials of _Il Muto_' was laughable enough to keep me entertained for weeks." She let out a small giggle, surprising, but delighting him.

"I didn't think you'd appreciate it if you heard it. But I meant-"

"His thoughts on the casting. Yes, I heard. At least Gardiner is sensible enough to recognise some of your gift, though I doubt he realises your full potential. You needn't worry, my dear, the _board_ will remember whose Opera House this is." Worried by the vehemence with which he once again spoke, she gestured for him to sit down and carefully took one of his hands.

"Angel, I understand that you know best and that you want me to succeed."

"You will, Christine." She smiled at him reassuringly.

"I trust you, my Angel. But not everyone feels the same way." He froze beneath her touch and her eyes lowered. "I think part of the problem might be the way the Ghost favours me."

Taking his hand from under hers, he stood, backing away. She dared to look up at him and saw sheer disbelief written across his features.

"And you would have me leave you in order to pacify those fools." Beneath the icy steel that would have ordinarily frightened her, she heard the hurt and realised she had already broken her promise not to betray him. That had her terrified.

"Angel,"

"No! I am no Angel. And clearly I am no longer welcome, even in _my_ Opera House. So be it, Miss Daaë. I shall leave you to-"

"No!" As soon as he had mentioned leaving, she had sprung up and moved to his side; clinging onto him for all that she was worth. "That isn't what I meant."

"Then do explain yourself, Miss Daaë, since I've once again managed to misinterpret your wishes." He said, wrenching his arm from her grasp. The look of pain on her face cut him to the quick by the same degree that he had hurt her.

"Not everyone appreciates the Ghost the way Dr Poligny does. A lot of them resent the hold you have over the Ravelle, and I think they're trying to get back at you by going against your wishes as far as I'm concerned." Silence. "They think that by casting someone else against your instructions, they're showing that they're in charge. They're trying to exert a bit of independence from the Ghost."

"As you do?" He asked, his voice a little softer, her reasoning having struck a chord with him.

"No." She pleaded. "Please don't think that, my Angel. I need you." The last three words she whispered, her eyes lowered in defeat as she gave her last defence.

He took a step toward her and tilting her chin up, searched her face. The words were not all he had hoped for, but they were still the sweetest music he had ever heard.

"I told you once, I will not leave you. I keep my word, Christine." Her lips parted in wonder and she fell into his arms, letting out a small wordless cry of relief. Astonishingly, it was almost a reflex as he returned her embrace – something he never thought he'd be able to claim.

"Christine," she looked up to him again and he held her face in his hands, "I cannot stop being the Ghost. It is who I am, how I live. Do you understand?" A frown creased her brow briefly.

"I understand. Just so long as you understand that it is not all of who you are." This time, he was the one to draw her back into his arms. "Although I have to admit, Buquet was very funny this morning."

"He abhors being made a fool of, and I doubt he will live it down in the near future. It should keep him in line for a while." He felt her smiling against his chest.

So lost were they in the moment that neither of them heard the lock click in the door. It was only when it began to open that he reacted and turned so Christine was well out of view – she being the easier to hide at that point.

"You should be more careful. I'm not the only one with a key, you know." He loosened his almost suffocating hold on Christine at Madame Giry's voice. "You can release her now, she has classes to attend."

Christine frowned, both at her teacher's acquiescence and at the disapproval that was more than obvious in her guardian's voice. She gathered her things and headed towards the door. Turning, she called to her dark Angel's back before it disappeared through the mirror.

"Shall I still come back for my lesson?"

"Of course."

The look he sent her was filled with warmth, but at the same time so apologetic; she couldn't help but wonder what had happened to change his mood so suddenly. As Madame Giry locked the door and reclaimed her key from her second daughter, her face was so resolutely stony; Christine knew that something had happened between her two guardians.

The only trouble was which one to ask.


	64. Chapter 63

**Author's Note: Thanks to KyrieofAccender, treblmakr7, Soignante, Mystery Guest (seriously, those mega reviews of yours are great reading), jeevesandwooster (double thanks), mikabronxgirl, jtbwriter and montaquecat (double thanks) for their latest reviews. And hopefully this chapter will answer some of your questions/requests. Thanks again everyone, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 63

"I'll be up in a bit, Meg." Christine called as her adoptive sister climbed up the stairs.

The two of them had been sent to bed fairly early after a hectic day of introductions to the new production and syllabus – not to mention the entire Institute was still on a high after the tremendously successful run of _Hannibal_. But they needed rest because Poligny had been right when he'd implied that the second half of the year would be far more challenging than the first.

Ordinarily, Christine would have obeyed her second mother's instructions, but her patience had worn thin. Antoinette wasn't surprised that she had stayed down, more than able to guess what was on her adoptive daughter's mind. Once again, they sat opposite each other in silence.

"Mother, what is the matter?" Antoinette didn't answer. Christine was beginning to get sick of silence counting as a reply. "You've been bad-tempered with me since I got back this morning. What is the matter? Are you offended that I didn't stay here last night?"

"Perhaps. Then at least, nothing would have happened."

"Happened? What are you talking about?"

"Where do you think he got your things from, Christine? I saw the two of you last night. Now I understand he has a strong hold over you my dear, but-" Horror washed over Christine's face as she interrupted.

"You actually think . . . I thought you trusted him."

Stunned at realising exactly what her guardian was talking about, she could barely manage to say even that.

"I do, but I never would have allowed things to go this far if I had realised."

"How far is that?"

"Christine, I saw you in bed with him!" Madame Giry said in a harsh whisper, all too aware that her own daughter was upstairs.

"Just as you've seen me in bed with Papa."

"What?"

"He was holding me the way Papa used to. He let me fall asleep the way Papa did whenever I had a nightmare. He did it for me the night before as well when he took me away from the house. I had to ask him both times, and he didn't do anything you'd object to."

"And why were you down there. I thought you would sleep in your dressing room."

"So did I. But he found me and offered to take me down there. He said I'd get a stiff neck on the couch."

"He offered?" Antoinette eyed the girl before her, wondering if she realised how the whole situation sounded.

"Mother, he's my Angel. He wouldn't do anything to harm me; he promised. You said you've known him for a long time, why don't you trust him all of a sudden?"

Antoinette rose and sat next to her daughter.

"Christine, I have known him for many years, and he does keep his word. But be careful: you've seen how he lives, you must realise he knows little of life. He is not your father."

"I know my Angel, but I only met the man four days ago. I still trust him."

There was a lot went unspoken between the two, made superfluous by the many years they had spent together, the many silent conversations they had shared.

"Very well. Only assure me that it was solely for your nightmares."

"It was. I wouldn't have asked otherwise. I know it sounds wrong, but I couldn't help thinking he'd keep them away."

"And it worked?"

"Completely." Looking into her daughter's eyes, she realised that that was the degree to which she trusted her masked tutor.

* * *

When she had taken all that Christine would need in the morning, she had been worried when her presence had gone unnoticed, even as she stood in the heart of the lair, but that was nothing to the horror she felt when she found her second daughter asleep in the Phantom's arms as he stroked her hair, their faces barely an inch apart. On finally seeing her, Christine's makeshift pillow had carefully disentangled himself and silently moved over to his latest visitor.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't take her back with me right now!" Antoinette had whispered harshly.

"She is sleeping. Peacefully." His emphasis on the last word stopped the tirade on her lips.

"I warned you, if you hurt her-"

"I have done nothing but protect her, even from herself it would seem." The anger in his voice was not of steel, it burned the way it only did when an offence was of the deepest kind.

"If I find out that anything has happened, do not think I will hesitate to take her from you." His eyes flashed at her, the visible side of his face flushed red from the outrage that flared within him, just itching to be unleashed. Before he could say anything, she went on. "You know whose ring she wears." That cooled him. "If it means keeping her safe, for her mother's sake, I will take her from you."

"For her mother's sake, you will never need to do that."

They were distracted by Christine's soft moans. As they neared, she was frowning, reaching out for something. Antoinette tried ineffectually calling to her, but stopped as her other charge took the restless girl back into his arms, softly calling her name into her ear. Almost instantly, she stilled, placing her head back over his heart where it belonged, holding onto him with a surprisingly strong grip for one who slept.

He did not lie back down with her until Antoinette had left, satisfied that all was well – given the circumstances.

* * *

The promise he had made was so solemn, so binding to the three of them – had the third heard it – that Antoinette was still in a state of disbelief. What had Christine done to affect such a change in him? He had not hesitated to hold her, yet she knew that he had been reluctant to accept even Katie's embraces.

"Christine, have you told him? About the ring?" She turned to her second mother, confused.

"No. I thought-"

"He doesn't know all that it means. Do not tell him unless you are certain you can."

"Of course. Mama told you?"

"She wanted to be sure you knew, even in her absence."

Christine sank into her second mother's embrace, wishing it was that of her first mother, as much as she welcomed it. She could almost hear her mother telling the tales of the O'Neill women who had worn the ring before, who had used the ring to give their men the hint they so often needed. She was the fifth generation. The Celtic knotwork spoke of eternity, and the ring of fidelity and love. It was a solemn emblem even in its own right; to the O'Neill women, it was a secret bond as sacred as a wedding ring. The rules were simple: only give the ring to the man you hope to marry if his love is clear; only reveal it's true meaning if he replaces the ring with one of his own; and only allow those dearest to your heart to place it on your finger.

And she had let him put the ring on her finger.

As she made her way up the stairs to get ready for bed, her thoughts were filled with the man who kept himself hidden from the world: but not her. The man who worked to inspire fear in all: but not her. The man who kept his true gift, his real genius away from the world's prying and unappreciative eyes: but not her. The man who had given her so much: including a ring.

It was overwhelming.

She was spared the inevitable conflict of emotions, the doubts and anxieties of all that he expected by something creeping in through the window: he was singing to her, that same wordless lullaby as he had given her during the _Hannibal_ dress rehearsal. Looking out of the back window, she saw nothing. Wait. There! A flash of white in the trees. Had she blinked, she would certainly have missed it. Or was he making sure she knew?

Smiling, she touched her right hand to the pendant around her neck, the moonlight briefly catching the silver. All the while, the soft music went on. Christine slipped into bed, all doubts, fears and nightmares pushed aside as her thoughts filled with her Angel of Music.

And she slept with a smile on her face.

* * *

Content that all had gone well – else she would not have smiled so freely – he finished the lullaby when he was satisfied she would be asleep. Having known Madame Giry for so long, he knew her daughter was a heavy sleeper and had seen her light go out some time since, for which he was grateful. If he could keep Christine's nightmares away until the episode had passed, then her voice would not suffer, she would be happy, as would he.

Happy.

Him.

Who would have thought?

He thought of the ring that had shone briefly in the moonlight. He would have known Katie's ring anywhere. On Christine's finger, it was a wondrous sight, especially as she had accepted it from his hand. It was incredible: the two women who had given him hope were bound together by that one circle of silver; the two women who had ever shown him real devotion were bound by that promise. Katie's promise.

Katie was still caring for him after all.

And Christine belonged to him.


	65. Chapter 64

**Author's Note: Thanks to montaquecat (double thanks), jeevesandwooster, treblmakr7 (double thanks), scarletghost13, mikabronxgirl, Soignante, KyrieofAccender, jeevesandwooster, jtbwriter, zeeksmom, Busanda, TouchingTrusting, Lady Winifred (double thanks), Spectralprincess (double thanks), Timeflies and mildetryth for their latest reviews.**

**A few people have been asking about the ring, so I will just try and clarify: the ring is not an engagement ring, but an indication on the lady's side that one would be appreciated. Our favourite Phantom does not know the meaning of the ring, just that Katie was never really without it and it obviously had signifcance to her, therefore it's important to him. That he put it on Christine's finger was a reminder of the hints (subtle or otherwise) she's had of his true feelings for her. There's been no declarations or promises knowingly or unknowingly made. And it isn't a Claddagh ring (thanks for the heads up though, mikabronxgirl). The possessiveness that came at the end of the last chapter is just as a result of all that has happened, the way Christine clings to him, and also there's something of Katie's promise in there which I have mentioned a few times (hope that helps, Spectralprincess).**

**OK, apologies for the delay with this chapter, but as you'll see it wasn't easy to write. And I know I owe a double update, but my life has been insane this week with packing. Hopefully the fact that this is easily my longest chapter so far and that the cliffhanger is nowhere near as evil as the one in the next would have been will make up for the fact that you're only getting one. I'd write the next, but it's very late as I type this, I still have reviews to reply to and I'm moving to Scotland tomorrow. On that note, if I don't update again in the next two days, then this story will officially be on a one week hiatus whilst I get settled in at uni and try to get back to a point where I can do regular updates again. Advanced apologies if that does happen. I promise, the next chapter will be another long one with lots of plot and action in it. I think you'll be able to guess at a lot of the content once you've read this though.**

**Thanks for your patience with me, and I hope you enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 64

For the sake of amicability between her two guardians, Christine agreed that she wouldn't spend the night down there again unless absolutely necessary; Antoinette and her masked charge reached a somewhat grudging truce, although it was owing mostly to their long relationship and that they both sought Christine's happiness. Neither of them actually apologised, but he agreed to be stricter with when their lessons ended, and she did not object when she found out that his singing Christine to sleep was not just a one-time occurrence. There was still some degree of unease between the two – they were both too proud and stubborn to let the disagreement simply slide – but as they ignored it for Christine's sake, it soon faded of its own accord into the old, familiar, mutual respect they had for one another.

The house was repaired within days, and when Christine received word that she could move in again, it was as good as new. There was very little of hers that had been damaged, seeing as most of her truly personal possessions were kept either in her room or under lock and key. But it was reassuring to see all as it should be, especially when she read the note from the Dean saying that they'd taken the liberty of replacing the locks with more secure ones. Reading between the lines – the tone of the letter bidding as much – she went to the desk and took out a sheet of paper, writing a note of her own to the person she knew to be responsible for that last detail, which was received with much appreciation.

After that week, Christine's lessons – as promised – became focussed on _Il Muto_, and particularly on the role of the countess. Conveniently, that was when the Vocal Performance classes began to actually practice the various parts. Neither Christine nor her dark tutor were particularly fond of the opera, and Christine was always reluctant to sing the laughing song from Act 1, even if it was the countess' first main aria. When asked why, she replied that it didn't feel right laughing at the man she was supposed to have pledged love and faithfulness to – even if it was in character. They had spent the rest of that lesson developing her voice through his music. When she added her own to it, the results were quite simply beyond words, though if asked, she would have said it was his music inside of her and that it wasn't in fact of her own making. If asked, he would have said nothing, merely gazed at the mannequin with the hopes of a repeat performance – or better.

Christine never found out what exactly Dr Poligny had done about the 'Hunt' besides seeing that the house was repaired, but she knew it couldn't have been pleasant for those concerned. She learnt to stay out of the way of Joe Buquet – not exactly difficult seeing as she only went to the main theatre nowadays for her lessons and nobody was ever nearby then. The few times she did see him, she was with someone else, but the looks he shot her were very disturbing, as though he were threatening or promising something. And it wouldn't be good.

Staying out of Carlotta's way was not such an easy task, seeing as they had exactly the same classes. Professor Gardiner did manage to keep them apart as much as possible though, without making it too obvious what he was doing. And Christine wasn't the only grateful one.

There were no illusions this time about the pressure everyone was under. It was the Ravelle summer production, the grand finale of the year which everyone – not just parents and trustees – anticipated with great relish. Everyone except the students, who were facing enormous amounts of stress. Not only did they have all their studying and homework to do for the theory aspects of the course, not only did they have yet another production to pull together, but they had to go beyond the standards they had set with the last, and learn absolutely everything that was relevant. Christine found this slightly more bearable than most of her peers, seeing as she had learnt two parts last time – three if you count the dancing. This time though, she was learning every part that was soprano, be it chorus, ensemble or solo. And seeing as everyone was in the same boat, nerves were fraught within a week. Rivalries grew more potent as the competition for the main parts was still being fought and all in all, the second half of the year fulfilled all the horror stories the first years had been told when they'd arrived – though most had refused to believe.

Once more, she found her lessons to be a haven after a trying day of all of the above, even when faced with the full force of her Angel's perfectionism. Though neither of them thought much of the chosen opera, nevertheless, Christine was still expected to shine – and not only that, but excel beyond her previous performances. Every now and again though, she was granted a reprieve when it became apparent that she was being pushed too far. Those rare hours were treasured by both, because those were the 'lessons' when all else was pushed aside except for _their_ Music. That was when they recaptured the magic of their first meeting, but without the uncertainties they had each experienced that night. They left her even more exhausted than her usual lessons, but it was a better kind of tired, seeing as she was giving her all freely to something she cherished, as opposed to being pushed to a similar standard for an 'unworthy' opera.

Those weeks were almost perfection for Christine and her Angel. Had it not been for the inconvenience of the Ravelle, there would have been no 'almost' about it. For their lessons, he resumed his old habit of teaching her from behind the mirror, but once they were done, he would appear so that they could spend the rest of their allotted time together. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they sang, and sometimes he just held her when she asked after a particularly trying day. He always disappeared before Madame Giry had the door open, and she always knew, but it was never mentioned. It was as though they had returned to the innocence of old times, only it was better.

But the inconvenience of the Ravelle remained.

Three weeks before the performances were to begin; the cast and positions were finally announced. It might have seemed a bit late, given that the cast and crew were only students, but they were all prepared by that time for whatever role they might be given. There were no trials or auditions, given that everything was allotted based on overall progress and merit for the year, as opposed to one instance or display.

Ubaldo Piangi was inevitably given the role of Don Attilio, the count. The other tenors were all too aware that he was the better voice – even if his diction and pronunciation often left much to be desired.

The role of the countess was given to Carlotta.

And Christine was Serafimo, the page boy. The silent part.

She was partly relieved: the silent role wouldn't be as much work, and the year had been thoroughly draining. That was only a small part of her, however; mostly, she was filled with dread. As soon as the roles had been announced, Carlotta had turned into a full-blown Prima Donna again. And this time her gloating didn't only consist of looks directed Christine's way. Having to go on stage in front of another potentially full house and pretend she was in love with _that_ was not something Christine relished. What really bothered her though was what her Angel would say and more to the point, what the Ghost would do, when he found out that his instructions had been disobeyed yet again.

When she got to her dressing room for her lesson, there was a distinct chill in the air. What was even more noticeable was the dark figure pacing at the far end of the room. It was also surprising for two reasons: firstly, he had kept his word and refused to enter her dressing room without her permission and secondly, he usually did not put in a physical appearance until the end of their lessons to avoid distracting her. As soon as she entered though, his pacing had ceased, he had moved towards her and taken her hands.

"Pardon my intrusion, Christine, but I knew how disappointed you must be."

"It's alright, my Angel, I'm glad you're here." She said to reassure him on the first point. It didn't matter how many times she said those words or the like, they always succeeded in warming his heart.

"Come." He guided her to the couch they so often seemed to share – even if it had previously offended – and helped her with her coat and bag.

"Do not worry, Christine. They may have decided to once again flout my instructions, but this oversight will be corrected. You will be playing the Countess."

"Angel, perhaps after _Hannibal_, it might be an idea to humour them this once."

"No! To humour them in this will only delude them into thinking they control this Opera House and I will not have that. Just as I will not have you in the shadow of that undeserving banshee." She didn't have to ask who he was referring to; he never bothered with politeness when it came to Carlotta.

"But if it's an opera you don't approve of-"

"Be that as it may, it is still no excuse for allowing that harpy to pollute the stage when there is a far more ideal role for her." She couldn't fully hide her grin, knowing he was referring to the role of the page boy. "You will be playing the countess; I promise you that, Christine." Looking into his eyes, she saw how earnest he was and knew that any other arguments would be as futile as the ones she had offered, so she said the words he was waiting for.

"Yes, my Angel." Satisfied, he nodded and moved over to the music stand, arranging the sheets there for her. He was about to disappear behind the mirror, as was his custom, when Christine stopped him.

"Stay?" He looked to her in question, ready to grant her request, but intrigued by it nevertheless. "It's been a difficult day, and you don't need to hide from me. I won't be distracted."

Holding out his hand, he brought her to stand in front of him in the position that now came almost as a reflex to her. He took her through their usual warm-up exercises, and though a little hesitant at first, her voice seemed richer than usual – and they both knew why, even if neither would have said as much. When he turned the page for the aria they would be studying – the dreaded laughing song from Act 1 – if such a thing were possible he could feel Christine rolling her eyes.

"I do not care for the song either, and it doesn't become you, but therein lies the challenge." Christine turned to him, intrigued. "You must either discover some beauty within the music, or add a charm to it that will make it bearable."

"Miracles aren't my department, Angel." She answered somewhat ruefully. He lowered his head to her ear.

"Then let us see if I am worthy of that title or not." He whispered, lowering his voice to the one he had used to charm her that first night, the one that she never failed to obey. A glazed look was in her eyes when he raised his head and turned her back to the music. Instead of the self-satisfied haughtiness that usually accompanied the song, Christine gave it an innocent air of freedom, as though she truly were in love and was giddy at the thought of being able to show it. When she finished, her eyes were closed and she was leaning against her delighted teacher slightly – as usually happened when she gave herself up to Music.

Lowering his lips to her ear once more, whilst she was still transfixed, he whispered.

"You would deny them that joy, Christine? You would allow them to suffer through the squawking of a peacock instead of gracing them with _Music_?" She turned.

Having sung that piece properly, having satisfied her dark tutor's wishes, she finally understood why he wanted her in a role that neither of them appreciated: to show there could be more to it when given into the right hands – a skill that was the difference between a performer and a Musician; between one who merely recited and one who brought the notes to life.

"I understand, my Angel. I just worry." He put a finger on her lips before she could elaborate.

"Don't. Have faith in me."

"I do." That was the problem.

When it came to the workings of the theatre – or more specifically, the casting – she knew that it was not her Angel she was talking to, it was the Opera Ghost. And having seen his handiwork, she no longer brushed off the legends about him as being exaggerated fancies of drunken stagehands; she couldn't help but wonder exactly how much truth was in them. She had faith in the Opera Ghost, but it was not in a good way: what happened at the _Hannibal_ dress rehearsal was bad enough, what he would do on having his instructions ignored a second time she could only imagine with dread. But unless something did happen, she would retain her hope in her Angel.

* * *

Due to the previous schedule, rehearsals were – amazingly – something of a breather for all those concerned. Seeing as everything had been assigned, everyone's focus had been narrowed, meaning their workload had been lightened. It still demanded a tremendous amount of time and effort, but at least they'd been granted some reprieve. Although having said that, they didn't feel the relief as much as one might have thought: actual rehearsals meant that the pressure was really on.

The stress of it all meant that tempers were short, patience was thin and the overall attitude was far from amicable. For Christine, this meant that whenever Carlotta felt she had something to complain about – which seemed to happen every other minute – then she was the scapegoat, the one Carlotta turned to if she felt like venting some anger or spitefulness. Were she not drawing strength from the fact that her Angel was nearby and she would be with him at the end of rehearsals, most days she would have found herself in tears by lunchtime.

Whilst he hated seeing her so upset, part of him could not help selfishly delighting in the harpy's jibes: for with each one, Christine was being driven more and more into his arms. It was a fact he was all too grateful for, seeing as the _boy_ had appeared again, and was frequenting the theatre far more often, supposedly to view the progress of the opera on behalf of his family. The amount of time he spent watching Christine soon dispelled that notion. De Chagny did try to remain discreet – which he was grudgingly given some small measure of credit for, but nevertheless he soon started overhearing gossip about his Christine and the young patron, which led him to once again affirm his rules about 'distractions'.

Christine had noticed when Raoul appeared, and couldn't help but notice that he stayed. It was only when she overheard titbits of gossip that she began to wonder at his reasons. When her Angel instructed her about avoiding anything which could distract her from her music, she knew where it had come from. His jealousy coupled with her fears about the Opera Ghost did leave her particularly anxious, but she kept hoping that she would be proved wrong; something that was shaken when she questioned him about his rule.

"Angel, may I ask you something?" They had just finished one of their lessons. The day had been fairly light, as Carlotta had spent most of it being fitted for the ridiculously elaborate costumes. As tended to happen when she began a conversation that way, the temperature dropped a couple of degrees as her Angel awaited her question.

"If it was strictly within the theatre, I was wondering if I might see Raoul sometimes?" He flinched as though he'd been struck. The look he gave her was so stony he might have been made of marble.

"You are asking my consent for you to be distracted from your work by one who has no appreciation for music or the greatness you could achieve?" He began slowly, but by the time he'd finished, his speech had quickened and though his voice did not raise in volume, it certainly became more chilling. Clearly he was not expecting an answer.

"Angel, I won't let him be a distraction."

"You know my instructions and yet you continue to argue against them?" He asked, incredulous.

"Will you at least let me explain?"

"Explain what? That our young patron wishes to make the most of his position and you have no objections?" Christine's face froze in horror at what he was suggesting about Raoul, and herself.

"Is that what you really think of me?" She whispered. He realised his mistake and was filled with self-loathing that he had once again allowed his anger to push Christine away.

"No. Explain why you ask now." He wearily conceded, by way of apology.

"I overheard some of the dancers gossiping about why Raoul is here, and if there's any truth in what they think, then he won't go away if I carry on ignoring him. He was worried during _Hannibal_ when I . . . when he couldn't find me, and when he got your note." He looked up in surprise, having forgotten that the boy had shown her his missive. "I know him, Angel: so long as he thinks he has reason to be worried about me, then he won't leave it alone. If I were to see him during some of my breaks; that will probably satisfy him." He considered her words.

"And if it doesn't?" She slowly approached him and twining her fingers with his, she looked into her eyes with all the conviction she possessed and answered.

"I won't let him be a distraction. I'd rather not lose an old friend, but I definitely don't want to lose my Angel." Though he held her hand, he couldn't resist raising his other and cupping her cheek, checking that this was real, that his precious rose was declaring her preference for him above a handsome, wealthy boy more suited to her in both age and temper.

"Just within the Opera House?" She nodded. "Very well, Christine. I trust you to keep your word." She smiled, taking hold of his hand when he would have moved it away, keeping it in place.

"Thank you, my Angel. I won't fail you."

Raoul was, of course, delighted to have his Little Lotte back. Though she was a little distant at first, the awkwardness soon passed and they were chatting away like the old friends they were – when she had a spare moment. He pressed her time and again to see her outside of the theatre, but always she had too much work or needed the rest. When he would ask if he could walk her home, there was always some excuse. Christine didn't particularly enjoy feeding him those lines. Granted, she never lied – she couldn't do that to a friend – but she couldn't help feeling that she was leading him on. And no matter how much she wished to fully renew her old friendship, if ever he became 'too friendly' she would instantly become aware of a certain phantom nearby. She couldn't deny how much she had found herself clinging to her Angel, but it seemed with every passing day she was becoming more aware of his possessive streak, which inevitably put a damper on whatever relationship she might have with Raoul.

* * *

When the final rehearsals came, everyone was in something of a nervous frenzy. Apparently the Ghost had sent another note to the managers, but as far as anybody could tell, nothing was being done about it. Everyone remembered what had happened during the last production and kept watching Carlotta – who relished the limelight no matter what the reason for it – waiting to see if something would happen. Christine also found herself to be the subject of scrutiny and gossip. Word had spread from the previous notes that the Ghost favoured her and many were beginning to wonder why and what, if anything, would come of it. As soon as Raoul picked up on this, he tried spending more time with her. Whilst the protection he surreptitiously attempted to offer was sweet, she couldn't help but find it slightly annoying that he was turning into the distraction she'd been warned against. It was unnerving, nevertheless, as she couldn't help but wonder if there would be some need. No. Her Angel would never hurt her. It was the thought of what he might do to others that made her shudder.

The production went fairly smoothly. A visit from Luciana Guidacelli during the final dress rehearsal caused a flurry of activity and attention to be lavished on Carlotta to please the celebrated patron. Luciana looked on, beaming proudly as her daughter brazenly flaunted herself, every inch the proud and domineering countess, her performance proving that the role was won through title or name as opposed to any real virtue – much like her character.

Certain of her role, certain of her mother in the audience, certain of the support of the Ravelle, Carlotta didn't bother to hide her disdain for her rival, as she took every opportunity to push her or trip her or anything else to show her dominance and generally make Christine's time on stage as uncomfortable as possible. Christine was actually grateful her part was silent, for otherwise her voice certainly would have been either blazing with outrage or faltering with the tears that were begging to fall. As it was, she merely took it in her stride, refusing to allow it to damage the performance she could give. At least until Carlotta turned so violently Christine couldn't stop herself from falling to the stage floor. Reyer's rebuke didn't help any, not coupled with Carlotta's look of triumph that put Christine in mind of a hyena – goodness knows the hyena would have sounded better.

When the rehearsal finally ended and they were allowed a little time to 'relax' before being called into wardrobe and make-up, Christine all but flew to her dressing room, forgetting her usual attempts at discretion after Carlotta had pushed past her one last time. As soon as the door was shut, she called out.

"Angel?"

"I am here, Christine." His voice was tight, as though he was in a particularly unpleasant mood. Nevertheless, she voiced her request.

"Angel, please, I need to see you."

He stepped out from behind the mirror, and his face was – as she'd guessed – as black as his cape. Immediately, he moved to stand in front of her and took her face in his hands. Were it not for the reserve he usually showed, and the fact he had never made such a move, Christine thought he would have kissed her then. Instead, he studied her features.

"This is intolerable. That banshee has upset and tormented you without the slightest censure for long enough."

"Angel, what is the matter?" His face softened.

"This wretched production has been difficult for you, to say the least, and yet you ask me what is wrong?" He smiled down at her warmly, which lightened her heart no end; his smiles were so rare.

"Tell me." She encouraged.

"Those fools have ignored all my instructions, my salary has not been paid for months and my box has been sold." He moved away from her, beginning to pace as he finally gave vent to some of his frustration. "This never would have happened under the previous managers; they knew their place and stayed in their offices. These latest imbeciles don't even know the difference between Beethoven and Bach and yet they dare to think they can dictate the run of _my_ Opera House!"

He was silenced from any further railing against the managers when a pair of soft arms wrapped themselves around his waist. As Christine laid her head just underneath his chin, he looked down at her before he returned the impromptu, but very familiar embrace.

"Much as I appreciate it, to what do I owe this honour?" His voice spoke into the mass of curls.

"You sounded like you needed a hug. I know I do." She added the last part a little sheepishly. She could feel his smile as it returned; satisfied that she had calmed him once more.

"Thank you, my dear. But what I also need is for my Opera House to be run properly." She shifted slightly so she could look up at him. "Don't worry, it will all work out. I promised you the role of the countess, and you will have it. I will not allow such preparation to go to waste."

"But, Angel, the performance starts in a few hours-" Silencing her, he put a finger on her lips.

"Do you doubt me?" Obediently, she shook her head, worried. Someone knocked on the door, calling her to wardrobe. With one final instruction not to worry and a renewal of his promise, he turned to leave. As he was about to step through the mirror, Christine called to him.

"Angel, please don't do anything you'll regret." She said softly, unable to believe she was daring such words; unable to hold them back any longer.

"And why would I regret correcting these mistakes?" He turned and looked at her anxious face. And he knew exactly what he could end up regretting.

"Do not worry, Christine." He whispered as the knock sounded again.

* * *

Once she'd gotten out of wardrobe, Christine at last had another reason to be glad of her part – the others having worn thin lately for some reason. The page boy's shirt, waistcoat and trousers were far easier to move in than any of Elissa's costumes had been, and was certainly nowhere near as ridiculous as the countess' – although she still had to wear a dress at first, and pretend to kiss Carlotta!

As she headed back to her dressing room, she couldn't help but wonder what her Angel had meant when he'd said she would have the role of the Countess. The performance was going to start far too soon for any drastic alterations to realistically be made, she was in costume for the silent part, and changing would quite simply at this stage be ridiculous.

So lost in her thoughts was she that she didn't hear the heavy footsteps behind her until a hand caught her on the shoulder and pushed her into one of the passages hidden by the spare scenery. Christine looked up to orientate herself and was horrified to find herself staring at the leer of Joseph Buquet.

"So you're the Phantom's bit of fluff then? Thinks he can have us all running around over a chit like you, eh? Oh don't deny it. I've heard the two of you together, talking, plotting." Bending down so that his face was inches from hers, he ran his finger down her cheek before moving his hand lower. "Mind, he's got taste, I'll give him that. What's say you let old Joe in your secret, find out what's got the Ghost so taken then?" He said, covering her mouth with his hand as he started grabbing hold of her.

He was too strong and too big by far for her to fight him off, but it didn't take him reaching under her shirt for her to try anyway. Tears formed as he began groping her in places no man had ever touched and she felt the old darkness clouding her mind. As he reached for her trousers, something inside of her snapped, refusing to sink into that darkness and torment she had been saved from and she bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth. Joe cried out in pain, striking her across the face as he cursed her. He was about to try again when he was knocked aside.

"Christine."

The horror-stricken young girl looked up into the eyes of her guardian and took the offered hand. Once she was up, Madame Giry looked down at the Master of the Flies as he scrambled to his feet.

"Surprise, surprise. The Ghost's lackey comes a-running. Sorry, Madame, I was hoping for better." He sneered, reaching for his 'prize' once more. Before his hand was within six feet of her, Antoinette swung her cane and viciously caught Joe right between the legs.

"Rest assured, Mr. Buquet, if you so much as look at my adopted daughter again, you will wish that that was all I had done. And I will certainly not be telling you again to leave my dancers alone." She turned her back on the doubled-over form that lay gasping at her feet and led Christine back to her dressing room.

Antoinette was horrified by the quiet ease with which she moved Christine onto the couch. When her daughter flinched at her touch, she was alarmed at how cold the girl was.

"Christine, I'm going for help. I have the key and no one will be able to get in. You'll be safe here." Christine's eyes were empty as she nodded, the words barely registering.

The darkness was everywhere, the flames reaching out to take hold of her, the pain all too fresh as she could practically taste the heat. But there were faces in the flames this time, laughing, mocking, tormenting. She saw their fingers reaching for her, trying to attack her. Her breathing became ragged, though she didn't realise that she was sobbing, nor did she realise that she had curled herself into the corner of the couch, attempting to seek refuge from the depths of her mind.

A hand touched her.

She jumped away, burned, her eyes looking around madly for an escape until a voice called:

_Christine.

* * *

_

He had been about to enter the walls of the managers' office to deliver his latest and final instructions on this pitiful attempt at opera when Antoinette had come running up to him in the shadows.

"Madame, I am busy." He said, not bothering to stop on his path.

"Christine was attacked." He froze. Turning, he looked at her in undisguised horror.

"Where is she?" The hoarse whisper was not a question, it was a demand.

"In her dressing room." She didn't have time to tell him the door was locked before he hurried away, not that such a detail would have bothered him. It hurt her that she was not the one her second daughter would turn to for comfort, but it was not something she would begrudge her child. Either of them.

* * *

When he had found the door locked, it was all he could do not to rip it off its hinges in frustration. Not knowing what state she would be in, he had resisted the urge and instead taken a few seconds to open it a slightly more conventional way.

For the second time in as many minutes, he froze.

Christine was curled up on the couch uttering dry sobs as she trembled violently. She was using her hands to try and cover herself, whilst at the same time pushing something away. Having seen her like this before, he had a vague idea what the matter was, but she had not been anywhere this bad last time! He moved to her side and tried putting a hand on her shoulder to still her. She flinched away from him. Trying to remember that she was not herself at the moment, he pushed aside the pain her action caused and called her name.

Her eyes stopped darting around, though they remained unfocussed. Softening his voice into that irresistible tone, he called again.

"Angel?" She raised a hand tentatively to his unmasked cheek, her fingers brushing lightly across his skin, making sure he was not yet another torment of her mind.

And then she fell into his arms, the sobs no longer dry.

He sat on the couch, pulling her into his lap. Clinging onto him with all the strength she possessed, she just let the tears flow, safe in the knowledge that her Angel was there, that it was alright now.

When Antoinette walked in, she found Christine curled up, but in the lap of her masked mentor, her arms so tight around him it was a wonder he could breathe. As she wept, he stroked her hair, whispering soft words of comfort – or perhaps they weren't words, perhaps it was just so that she could hear his voice. As she shut the door behind her, he looked up and quietly demanded:

"What happened?" Antoinette sat in the chair at the dressing table so that she was facing the pair.

"I don't know. I found Buquet with her. I think he was trying to rape her." She choked on the last two words.

Never in all his years of being tormented, tortured and betrayed, never in all the pain he had had inflicted on him, in all the myriad of ways people had found to hurt him, never had he felt such an overwhelming hatred for anyone. This was not a fire that burned within him, it was a volcano just begging to erupt and devour whatever was in its path.

But for the weeping rose he cradled in his arms, he would have given in to it there and then.

"Did he . . .?" He could not even find the words, so abominable was the thought. A man – _that_ man, if he could be called that – any man, touching _his_ Christine, hurting her, violating her . . . He knew she was strong, but she had already borne more than he would have believed. If there was any answer other than 'no' to his question . . .

"I heard him strike her. Beyond that, I think she is physically unharmed."

"He touched her. He hit her." Instinctively, he held onto his precious charge tighter with each sentence, though he barely realised he'd spoken. Christine shifted slightly, regaining his attention. Looking up at him, she whispered in relief.

"You came." He could not help pressing her head to his chest as he whispered back.

"Of course. I always will. Forgive me for not being there when you needed me."

"No," meeting her eyes, he was stricken, "because you're here, when I need you. There's nothing to forgive." He looked at her in astonishment, wanting to believe her acceptance, but unable to grant himself the same favour.

"I should have-" She put a finger on his lips, silencing him in what had become their usual manner.

"You may be the Opera Ghost, but you're still a man. And you still came." Though he didn't understand it, he had to accept her logic, for her finger prevented any further argument. So he simply nodded and resumed his hold on her. They sat there for several minutes before Antoinette asked the question.

"Christine, do you think you will be well enough to perform?" Christine turned, surprised.

"Mother, I didn't hear you come in."

"Do you think you can perform?" She wiped her eyes a little, considering, until her hand was pushed away and replaced by a handkerchief. As her Angel softly dried her face, her eyes searched his for an answer. Once he was finished, he lowered his head to hers, which she tilted that he might whisper in her ear.

"Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán." She closed her eyes, savouring that wonderful voice, the comfort it provided and the hope and promise it offered. When she opened them again, he was silently repeating Madame Giry's question. Turning back to her second mother, she answered.

"I'll be fine. I can perform." She answered, squeezing her Angel's hand, showing both of them where she drew her strength from. "At least it's only the silent part; I don't know that I'd be able to sing right now."

Not the right thing to say.

She felt him tense up behind her and remembered how much of a sore point the issue was with him.

"Angel, it's alright-"

"It is far from 'alright'. This place would ruin you for the sake of a barely respectable name and a patron who isn't worth the time of day."

"Angel?" Now she was worried. Seeing her discomfort, he renewed his embrace, hushing her into calm once more.

"Don't worry, my dear. All will be well." Shifting her so that she was looking at him, he reverted back to being her instructor. "But you must be ready to sing." Searching his eyes for the reprieve she so desperately needed, she found nothing but the conviction behind his words. Obediently she nodded, hoping she could ignore the Ghost who spoke to her and draw strength from her Angel.

She was going to need it.


	66. Chapter 65

**Author's Note: First of all, I cannot apologise enough for the horribly long amount of time it has been since I last updated this story. I know I said it'd be a week and it's actually been a month, and I have been cringing with guilt and shame for said month. Rest assured, I'm still here, still writing and I WILL be finishing this story, in case anyone was worried. As I mentioned in my last author's note, I moved to Scotland. Unfortunately, I had to go a while without the internet, and by the time I did get it, my uni course was well underway, and it is a LOT more demanding than my last one. The basic idea is: I've got nowhere near as much time as I had before, and when I do have time, I'm too tired to do anything. Plus, this chapter was horrible to write.**

**Unfortunately, due to the afore mentioned circumstances, I'm going to have to cut down my updates to once a week, but I will do my utmost to get them in at least that often. Possibly more if I get time off . . . we'll see. Sadly, this also means I may not be able to do the double updates every 25 reviews, but again, I will make every effort to reward you for all your lovely reviews. Hope that's OK with everyone. But seriously, many many many many many apologies for leaving this so long. I hope I haven't disappointed any of my readers. I'll try and keep on top of things in future.**

**Secondly a few queries were raised by some of my lovely reviewers, which I have answered individually, but I'll put them in here as well in case anyone's interested. The meaning of flowers is something I got from http / www . flowermat . com / meaningflowers . htm (just remove the gaps). Go to that and you'll find a table with the meanings of a lot of flowers, and in most cases, pictures. But if you google that or something similar, you can usually find a pretty good list.**

**The words in the chorus of Siúil a ruin are: '****Siúil, siúil, siúil a ruin, Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin, Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom, Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán' which means: '****_Go, go, go, my love, Go quietly and go peacefully, Go to the door and fly with me, And safe for aye may my darling be._' in case anyone was wondering what he sang to her in the last chapter. And the website where I get my translations for the LOTD/Riverdance songs is: ****http/ www . geocities . com / celticlyricscorner / soundtracks / lordofthedance . htm (again, remove the spaces (why I am telling you this? You guys aren't stupid, except maybe for putting up with me . . .))**

**And last, but in no way least, thank you to Soignante, CarolROI, jtbwriter, montaquecat, KyrieofAccender, TouchingTrusting, Mystery Guest, Rose of Night, snowflake17 (double thanks), treblmaker7, mikabronxgirl, Timeflies, Lady Winifred, mildetryth, Spectralprincess, Earelwen (mega thank you for such an enthusiastic catch-up), LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, jeevesandwooster, Lair Lover (again, mega thank you for reading it all so quickly), Angel or Demon and grannydaisytoo (once again, mega thanks, and I have most certainly not abandoned this story) for their wonderful reviews. You've really kept me going, and the encouragements I've been receiving are quite simply phenomenal.**

**As I told grannydaisytoo, I have not abandoned this story, and yet again I find myself grovelling with apologies in case anyone thought that. Enough of my babbling, because this 'Note' appears to be rivalling the chapter for length. So I shall sign off with my usual thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 65

Christine could not believe the way her Angel had behaved. Yes, she had faith in him to restore her song no matter what, but usually he was much more considerate than this. He had sat there and held her with so much care and patience that his sudden turn of behaviour was quite simply horrifying. He had become the Ghost, and the Ghost was displeased, and there was nothing she could do about it now other than obey his command. It was with much uneasiness of mind that she allowed Antoinette to fix her make-up. Were one of the wardrobe department to do it, gossip would spread like wildfire about the state she was in and the day had already proven difficult enough, to say the least.

As soon as Christine was ready and sat in her dressing room, preparing herself for the performance, Antoinette went and phoned the police. In the past, out of courtesy to her and her faithful service, the Ghost had dealt with Buquet when he had gone too far in the liberties he took through his position, and it was thanks to these interventions that the ballet girls had escaped most of his 'attentions'. This time though, he would get what was coming to him, she would see to that. Had it been any of her girls, she would have taken this action anyway. To have him hurt Christine . . . that second blow had probably been more vicious than she ought to have dealt, but it was oh so satisfying, and her daughter was worth it and more. 

She couldn't help but worry about her other charge though. Rarely had she seen him so grim and determined on anything outside of his music. Once she had made her call and been assured that the police were on their way, she went in search of him to try and warn him against anything rash – knowing as she hurried that it would no doubt be pointless.

But fate – or her own actions – conspired against her. After a fruitless search of the few passages she knew, one of the ushers found her: the police had arrived and the managers were calling for her to speak with them – anxious to get the unwanted presence away from the grand foyer and the eager ticket holders who would no doubt be put off by them. They were not given much opportunity to question her as the signal was given announcing the start of the performance, though they were assured of both her and Christine's full cooperation as soon as an interval presented itself.

Seeing as they had kept themselves to the front of the theatre, the cast remained oblivious to the officers' presence. As did a certain shadow hovering in the wings. When he had learned that his box had been taken by none other than that _boy_ they called a patron, it had sealed the fate of many as his rage became complete. They were trying to destroy all that was his, all that he had sought to create in his efforts to claim something in this world that was not poisoned by prejudice or tainted by pain: something beautiful, something that was _his_. And these presumptuous fools would destroy it because they were too blind to see the truth – that the Ravelle prospered under his dominion like no other opera house ever could; that he had a gift to give that the world rejected at every turn.

With one exception.

And they had rejected her too in their futile efforts to quell him. And because of their folly she had been hurt in more ways than one, none of which were forgivable. It was time for them to learn whose domain they dwelt in, whose command held sway: it was time to teach them the true nature of the voice that should never have been ignored.

* * *

On stage, Christine was fraught with nerves. Whilst she loved performing, to be the subject of Carlotta's triumphant extravagance was insufferable. Coupled with . . . what had happened, she was in no fit state to be there. She truly was glad that her role was silent – it was work enough making her face consistently display the proper emotion; to have to sing as well with a voice that could fill the theatre . . . were she not on stage, the very thought would have been enough to make her knees buckle, the day had been that straining on her. 

And yet, she was to be ready to sing.

By her Angel's instruction she was to be ready. Or rather, by the Ghost's command.

Carlotta's triumphant façade and the promise of misery it presented was not what sent chills down her spine as she replayed those last few moments in her dressing room when her Angel had disappeared so rapidly, leaving the Ghost in his place. Was this what Meg had been trying to warn her about at the start of the year?

There was no more time to dwell on it – thankfully. The music started, and the curtain rose to reveal a set as lavish as that of Hannibal, but at least ten times more ridiculous. Three of the soloists began, taking turns to sing a line or two before joining together as they introduced the story rather blatantly, which had always annoyed both Christine and her teacher – it only served to make the opera more ridiculous.

"They say that this youth has set my Lady's heart aflame! His Lordship, sure, would die of shock His Lordship is a laughing-stock! Should he suspect her, God protect her! Shame! Shame! Shame! This faithless lady's bound for HADES! Shame! Shame! Shame!"

As the curtain rose, revealing the pair, Christine tried to focus on the music as her character Serafimo was called upon to look like he was 'wooing' the countess. She could feel Carlotta's nails digging into her arms as she was held in a 'lovers' embrace'. Well, one thing at least was certain: Christine knew how to act.

"Serafimo - your disguise is perfect." Grateful for the 'knock', Christine turned away at Piangi's entrance and began furiously pretending to dust, relaxing her face somewhat, although the rest of her was still required to put on a show.

"Who can this be?"

"Gentle wife, admit your loving husband."

"My love - I am called to England on affairs of State, And must leave you with your new maid. Though I'd happily take the maid with me."

"The old fool's leaving!"

Ubaldo and Carlotta's dialogue was as overblown as their singing, but for once they were granted an opera where it was actually appropriate. Sadly, this meant that this was even worse than usual as they broke into a duet of cadenzas meant for nothing more than showing off. Eventually though, Piangi left.

"Serafimo - away with this pretence! You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's absence!" Christine, having literally thrown off the maid's portion of her costume, met Carlotta as the two bent towards each other in an exaggerated gesture. Fortunately, it was hidden by Carlotta's massive fan. As they separated, Christine moved towards the back of the stage while Carlotta began the laughing song which her rival had been so reluctant to sing during her lessons.

"Poor fool, he makes me laugh! Haha, Haha... Time I tried to get a better half!  
Poor fool, he doesn't know! Hoho, Hoho... If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!"

The soloists who had now formed a miniature chorus joined Carlotta on the last line, allowing her voice to rise above them without the music being completely lost. Christine ducked and hid behind Carlotta, highlighting both the meaning of the song and the farce they were all engaged in. Though she felt fairly mechanical in the motions, having surrendered as much as she could to the music, her natural grace meant that there was nothing lacking in her poise or movements.

Until an all-too familiar voice called out, filling the theatre and silencing all those within.

* * *

Watching from his position in the flies, he had seen the peacock and her devoted lap dog parading about the stage, making their usual contributions to music: none. And his rose was left wilting in the background as though she were some common wallflower. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Antoinette looking up at him briefly, but he had little concern for whatever was going through her mind, as he saw the boy in _his_ box, smiling down benevolently at Christine as though she were being honoured, as though he had put her there. 

He had given them instructions. He had given them warnings.

And they had flouted him at every turn. And he had had enough of their insults.

It was no surprise to see Buquet hovering around, and so he lingered a moment longer than usual, allowing the wretch to catch sight of him before he disappeared into his shadows, heading towards the eaves circling the chandelier. As soon as he could, he looked down at the stage once more, watching whilst it was desecrated by those toneless fools. Christine played her part as well as could be expected, but as was expected, there was no soul in it; none of the passion with which he knew she could perform. His rose was being suffocated, cut off from music which she thrived on and the praise she alone deserved.

That was what caused him to step out onto the balcony circling the ceiling. He was hidden by the chandelier, though it remained obvious there was someone there.

"Did I not instruct that Box Five was to remain empty?"

As the voice echoed around the massive auditorium, sounding as though it were coming from everywhere and nowhere, the music ceased and there were the token gasps and mentions of the infamous Phantom, but it was Christine who held his attention as she turned fearful eyes towards him. How she had found the source of his voice, he could only wonder at; her fear, he could only attribute to the sudden events that had plagued the day. Clearly she recognised him, as he saw her lips forming words to that effect, and clearly she must have spoken for the harpy reprimanded her, calling her a toad. Which gave him a much better idea than the trapdoor he had been planning on making use of.

On hearing nothing further, Carlotta began once more by telling Serafimo that he couldn't speak, no doubt to re-exert her position. Christine was saved the humiliation of having to 'kiss' her tormentor again as a hideous sound appeared to come from her throat.

Yet again, the music ceased, replaced by the curious titters of an amused audience. It resumed soon enough though, and nervously, Carlotta began the laughing song. It was appropriately named, for the audience was soon in hysterics as the poor girl managed to croak during each line. A Guidacelli croaking on stage! Who ever heard of such a thing? She soon ran off and the curtains were hastily drawn to hide her embarrassment and preserve what little dignity she might have left.

Hearing the clumsy attempts at stealth of Buquet, he left, satisfied that all would soon be well again in his Opera House.

* * *

Christine stood on stage completely bewildered. When the first croak had come out of Carlotta's mouth, she had simply stood there in astonishment. As the music had resumed, she had taken her place once more, but the second croak soon stopped her and all she could do was stare in wide-eyed horror as it continued. She knew that voice was not Carlotta's, and having heard a similar effect – although nothing like that sound – before, she knew exactly who was responsible for it. It was no surprise when the young Prima Donna ran off the stage. Christine stared after her, knowing full well what this would mean. Those around her shot looks her way suggesting they too knew why this was being done, or at least what would come of it, though little of anything registered in her mind until she found herself being pulled before the audience once more as the managers announced she would be performing as the countess in ten minutes. 

She barely heard the announcement about the ballet from Act 3 as she ran back to her dressing room. Mother Giry was already there and waiting for her when she arrived to help her into the corset she would need to wear. For once, she actually looked in the mirror as she hid the marks on her arm. Ordinarily, she would have let her guardian do the task, but they did not have the luxury of time, and so she pushed herself once more to look at the scars that were the ever-present symbol of her pain.

As she applied the final touches and hastened the make-up to dry as much as she could, a flash of scarlet caught her eye. There, on the couch where she had so recently found a haven, lay the gift thereof: a thornless deep red rose, the perfect bloom entwined with a black ribbon. Before Antoinette could try helping her into the countess' dress, she moved over to the couch and lifted the flower as delicately as the fragile petals required.

It was a gift from her Angel. But he only ever gave them at the end of a lesson or performance. Why was it here now? Surely he was not leaving her so soon?

Unless the performance had already ended.

The music from Act 3 was playing. It was the managers' attempt to appease the audience, but they had a far more urgent supplication to make and based on the way her Angel had behaved earlier, she did not think her presence on stage would be enough. Suddenly all her previous fears returned and wrapping the cloak meant for Act 3 around her corseted figure, she ran back towards the main body of the theatre, hoping she could find her Angel in time.

In time for what, she didn't know, but the instant she reached the stage wings, she knew that she was too late.

* * *

The clumsy footsteps would have been impossible to miss, even if his hearing hadn't been so keen. Buquet chased the Ghost, and the Ghost led the chase, nearer and nearer to the flies directly above the stage. This was Buquet's 'home ground'; this was where he thought he reigned supreme. For a middle-aged man most decidedly overweight, he moved with incredible agility in his work – mind, it was the only job he'd ever really had, never having been qualified for anything else. That agility was all for nought, for he was no match for the Ghost. The shadow ahead of him darted here and there, disappearing into nothing, reappearing seconds later unnaturally far ahead. Buquet was determined this time; he'd been badly humiliated twice now because of that freak. Pushing aside all thought of his 'injury', save for that which strengthened his resolve, he continued his pursuit; he wasn't going to allow the demon to get away on his turf. 

He soon realised that his quarry was thinking along similar lines. Having run over the boards that hung above the stage, thinking he'd seen him go that way, Buquet was horrified to find himself suddenly face to face with the Phantom in all his terrible power. The white mask glared down into his stricken face as the shadowy spectre towered above him. Buquet, finally remembering why the spectre was so feared, fled back the way he'd come, but as he looked around, there was the Ghost just across the way, following him relentlessly, no matter which way he turned.

It was only a few scant moments of running later that he turned, searching everywhere, but there was nothing to be seen. No shape, no shadow, no spectre. Nothing.

The shadow flew down, landing a few feet from the Master of the Flies, who dashed helplessly along the rafters, losing his footing as the boards were shaken.

Turning the portly wretch onto his back, he swiftly fastened the noose around the chubby neck, the subtlety of the rope coming back to him with the same ease he would play any other instrument – and with a similar relish. Looking into the terror-filled eyes, he savoured each moment as the rope tightened. At the last, he leaned his head nearer, drawing out the horror for his prey as much as he could before whispering in the coldest voice he possessed; a voice which promised death above all else:

_For Christine_

He pushed the form off the clumsy bridge allowing the rope to complete its task, drinking in every scream that erupted from both the stage and the audience as Buquet struggled his last before his neck snapped and he stared out with lifeless eyes. Triumphant that his revenge had been exacted, he turned and left before anyone could find more up there than his shadow.

Had he stayed a second longer, he might have spotted a familiar rose just off stage.

And the ashen face of the figure who held it.

* * *

**AN (again): I know I promised a longer chapter, but it didn't quite work out that way. And if anyone thinks I'm leaning on ALW/the film a little too heavily for this scene, sorry, but I really didn't have a clue how to change the action, and I'm not going to change the songs. Hopefully my little twists will make it forgivable. Again, I was hoping to do a double update, but the next chapter's difficult, it's late, and I have to be up early in the morning, so I'll try and have it done ASAP, preferably no later than the weekend for you all. Ta muchly, and thanks for putting up with me and my absences. Nedjmet.**


	67. Chapter 66

**Author's Note: I was hoping to post this last night, but it was a very challenging chapter to write as I'm sure you'll see. Hopefully I pulled off everything that I was going for without managing to disappoint. I'll try and get the next update in ASAP, but if you end up waiting, as I said in the previous AN, it won't be for more than a week.**

**Thanks to KyrieofAccender, Lothiel, montaquecat, Earelwen, Busanda, jeevesandwooster, mikabronxgirl, jtbwriter, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ (special thanks to you - you know why), Passed Over, Rose of Night, Spectralprincess, TouchingTrusting, mildetryth, snowflake17 and 6 mega 'thank yous' to Lady Wen for some impressive catch-up reading and reviewing.**

**I can't thank you guys enough for being so understanding about my absence. Your reviews were a wonderful end to a tough week, so THANK YOU, and just for mildetryth, another ten apologies for the delay :). Thank you so much for sticking with me everyone, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 66

As she neared the stage, though she couldn't have said how, she knew he was nearby. Quite a number of the cast looked at her strangely, wondering what she was doing there cloaked, but otherwise in just a corset and the voluminous petticoats that made up half her costume. Ignoring them, she searched everywhere she could think of for her Angel.

She found him.

It was only when the body fell that she realised what he had been doing in the few seconds before. Joseph Buquet's legs twitched madly before hanging limply like the rest of him. The rope turned and she saw his face, contorted in death – and staring straight at _her_. In the next breath, he fell. Her eyes followed, stopping where he had landed on stage. Something within her made her look up again. Though it was only for a moment, she saw the dark figure standing above the stage. The cold triumph on his face was more terrifying than the startling white mask that frowned down at everyone else.

And then he was gone.

Her Angel was gone. And the Ghost had left . . . _this_ in his wake. As she continued to stare up into the shadows, she became lost in them: she saw Buquet's eyes, leering over her as he'd attacked her; then staring at her in death, filled with accusation. She saw the exultation of the Ghost as he'd wrought his revenge over the insolent subordinates who dwelt in his kingdom. She saw the darkness that surrounded him, that filled him, and the more she stared up into those shadows, she felt that same darkness surrounding her. It crept in slowly, chilling her heart as it consumed her once more. She was falling . . . falling into the black depths of isolation, of loss . . . of death. All that she had felt after her father had . . . it filled her anew as it found her once more. It had found her, and in the form of a ghost, it had taken her Angel.

She was alone.

She was drowning. The air wouldn't fill her lungs, so lost was she under the waves of horror that crashed over her mind at that thought. Blindly pushing past the panicked crowds, she couldn't find a way out – until she saw the stairs. As she moved towards them, she caught snatches of a familiar voice . . . Raoul? He wanted to know if she was _alright_? Mindlessly, she continued to climb, hearing herself telling him that it wasn't safe, that it would find her . . . that _he_ would take her. The shadow had taken everything else from her, what else was left besides?

Bursting through the door and out onto the roof, she drank in the air heavily, her eyes transfixed by the stars, the light shining upon her filling her with hope. Until she looked at the darkness that enveloped them. Then she succumbed to the chill once more. Distantly, although he was only mere inches away from her, she heard Raoul asking why she'd brought him there.

_I didn't. You followed._

"Christine, we have to get back, they'll be-"

"I can't go back there. He'll find me . . . those eyes will find me . . ." Those eyes that were forever burned in her mind, the eyes that had stared down laying the blame on her for what had happened.

"Who? This Ghost? He's nothing more than a phantom of your mind."

"Raoul, I've been there. I've seen that world of unending night. I know that darkness. I can't go back there. He'll find me. He'll stop at nothing to take me."

She barely felt Raoul taking hold of her arms from behind, and she almost missed him gently saying her name. All she could see was the bleak darkness, and the Ghost who had sunk her beneath the black torrents once more; which is why she started as she heard an all-too familiar voice whisper her name across the night sky, catching her attention with one breath far more efficiently than a thousand of the other who was there.

Though it was only a word, though only the faintest whisper, it filled her mind and she held onto it desperately, wanting it to drown out all else as she knew it truly could. Her eyes sought the origin of that voice, longing for the comfort only its owner could provide, longing for him to shelter her from the darkness again: longing to have him tell her it was just a dream and nothing more. So tormented was she that she did not realise she had let the precious rose fall. She simply allowed herself to be folded in the embrace that was offered, though it was nothing like the one she hoped for.

* * *

Raoul held her in his arms, somewhat content that his Little Lotte was back, but otherwise horrified at the state she was in. He'd been trying to keep an eye on her since he'd received that note from 'O.G.'. The undertones it carried had sounded like the writings of a psychopath, and more to the point: one who was determined to have Christine; his beautiful Christine who had stunned them all with that incredible voice of hers.

As soon as the change in casting had been announced, he'd headed down to see her and make sure she would be alright. Whilst he had been somewhat aware of the situation concerning the 'Ghost's' latest demands, he thought it sheer lunacy to expect Christine to perform the title role with only ten minutes preparation. That had been his concern until he'd heard the screams. The moment the body had fallen to the floor, he had been snapped out of his horrified stupor and renewed his search for Christine. He had spied her running towards him, and had immediately called out to her letting her know where he was. All she had said in return was that it wasn't safe. Chasing after her, he finally understood what the matter was when she'd said that _he_ would find her. His poor Lotte was terrified of this 'Ghost', and had sought solace in the one nearby retreat that wasn't completely within his domain. Tilting her chin up so that she was looking at him, he tried to pour hope back into her lovely eyes.

"Christine, I won't let anyone take you. Least of all some coward who hides in the shadows." Turning from him again, she wrapped her arms around herself, her voice sounding far away as her mind was still occupied with thoughts of her shadowy mentor.

"Raoul, you don't know him. He'll stop at nothing to get what he wants. That face haunts my dreams, but it's filled with all the sadness of the world. He frightens me, yet in the darkness, he makes my voice soar like it never has before."

"Shh. No more talk of darkness, Christine. I won't let him take you again. I can protect you." He offered, bringing her back to his touch once more in his efforts to provide the comfort she so obviously needed.

"I just want to be free. The nights have haunted me for so long . . . the darkness keeps threatening to consume me." She sounded so helpless; he tried again with more zeal.

"Then let me help you, let me bring you away from all this. Christine, do you remember those summers we spent together? I can give you that light again if you'll let me. You've been in the darkness too long, away from those who care about you; let me save you from that darkness."

Pleading with her, he was rewarded as she gazed at him with clarity for the first time that night. A small frown creased her brow, but it soon faded. Finally feeling some confidence, he bent down slowly, wanting to show her all that he meant as he pressed his lips lingeringly against hers. Instead, she turned her head slightly, and it was her cheek that received the caress. When he lifted his head, she gazed at him in wonder before throwing her arms around him tightly.

Eventually they parted and breathlessly, she said that she ought to get back. Raoul allowed her, relieved that his Little Lotte was his at last. He followed her down back into the hubbub of the theatre, silently vowing to guard her as much as he could during the difficult events that would no doubt follow tonight's disaster. His old playmate had always needed someone to guide her, and he had no intention of letting anyone else step into that breach now that she had returned to him.

* * *

He had been on his way back to her dressing room, where he had thought he'd find her having left his gift. When he heard her voice though, promptly followed by the boy's, he had immediately altered his course and followed them, astonished when he realised they were heading towards the roof. The building was ornate enough in its design that concealing himself whilst still seeing all was not difficult, a fact he was grateful for as he was once more granted the sight of Christine bathed in the night's glow. His rose of the night truly was exquisite, dressed in the old-fashioned garb of the opera that somehow looked perfect on her here.

When that young pup obstructed his view and dared to near his angel, he felt his hands reaching for his side where the length of rope had only recently been. He was stopped short as she spoke. And as her angelic voice poured forth, each word was as a knife in his heart.

She had seen.

It had been years since he had done anything like that, years since he had allowed such a rage free reign over his faculties. Having grown up being taught he was less than an animal and then being shown otherwise, he had sought to rise above his earliest lessons. And for her, he had allowed himself to slip back. For her, he had risked everything.

And she was rejecting him.

Turning away from him, his world, all that he could offer her, she was allowing that _boy_ to draw near.

Her name escaped his lips before he realised. She heard. Myriad emotions swam across her face before she finally turned to _him_.

The boy called him a coward for hiding in the shadows. What would a self-absorbed _fop_ know of his life? What would a handsome young _fool_ know of having no other choice? Christine moved away from him at his comments. Was his rose about to defend her poor angel? No. Like the ghost that he played, he haunted her. Like the monster she had almost persuaded him to forget he really was: he frightened her.

As the boy offered her a sanctuary the naïve pup could not ever hope to provide, he looked down and saw the rose that had fallen from her hands. The rose he had given her. The rose like so many she had willingly and gladly received from him. The rose that was a symbol of all he felt for her. And she had carelessly let it slip through her fingers. Taking it delicately, he blocked out everything after she wished for freedom. He did not hear her speak solely of the darkness. When he risked a glance, he saw his rival bending down to kiss her. That boy was actually daring to taste her lips: something he had only ever dreamed of in his sweetest slumbers!

She turned away. Could it be she remained loyal to her angel?

When she embraced his rival with more fervour than she had ever bestowed on him, he knew the answer.

Watching them flee, he crushed the innocent flower. So he was a monster keeping her caged, a demon to be freed from, a ghost that haunted her with the face of a devil? He had given her everything: his music, his time, his devotion. His heart.

No.

That had never truly been offered. He had not been fool enough to risk that. But he had shown it to her. And not only had she plunged in the same knife as the rest of the world, but in revealing so much to her fool of a suitor; in turning from him, she had twisted the blade, inflicting a greater wound than any other had managed before.

As the last of the crumpled red petals fell to the ground along with the stem that had held them bound, he let fall the last of his restraints and freed the terrible cry of rage that had been swelling within him since he had heard the words "Christine was attacked."

No more!

Too long had he dwelt in the shadows. Too long had he ruled through rumour and whispers on the wind. Too long had fools trampled his wishes and quashed his ideas. Too long had his hopes been disappointed. Too long had he been failed by those he had dared to trust.

Too long had he let the Ghost keep him idle. But no more.

It was time for the Phantom of the Opera to reclaim his kingdom. To claim all that belonged to him.

And they would curse the day they did not do all that he asked of them.

* * *

Having finally managed to shake off Raoul, Christine hurried back up to the roof. Her whole encounter with him had left her dazed. Granted he had given her comfort when she needed it most, but it was not all that she had needed – there was still something missing. It was only when her hands felt empty that she realised she must have dropped her rose whilst she was up there.

Raoul's words had been sweet, but far too naïve. Did he really think he could protect her? That she needed protecting from her Angel? The idea was ridiculous. He didn't even realise what she had been talking about for goodness' sake! Not that she had it within her right now to make him understand.

He cared about her. So the gossip had been on the right lines, even if they had made it sound more sordid. She couldn't believe it, though based on all that had been said on the matter by the student body and her Angel; she really shouldn't have been surprised. But she never could tell about things like that. Her Raoul had returned: her childhood sweetheart, the boy she had dreamed of marrying. But he was a boy, and her childhood dreams belonged there with the little girl who used to wear pigtails and chase after the Korrigans when they danced at the rising of the moon.

When he had tried to kiss her, she had turned away, knowing what he wanted, knowing that she didn't. Papa had always told her that her first kiss should be better than even the most wonderful music, that there was only one who could bestow that upon her. She would then laugh and try to steal a kiss from him. Raoul had tried to bestow it, but something inside of her knew it was not right. His words had reminded her too much of the first song she had sung with her Angel. And the magic of those brief but glorious moments was sorely lacking in his gentle caress. When she fell into his arms, it had been through the overwhelming loss she felt: loss of her childhood innocence, loss of her father, loss of her peace of mind – but most of all: loss of her Angel.

He had not been there to comfort her when she needed him. It had not been his arms that had kept her shielded from all the horrors of the world. Instead it had been a pair of arms that merely offered a placebo in comparison.

She was wrong.

When she saw the small splashes of crimson on the cold roof, she knew with a horror that her Angel had been there, that he had seen and heard. She hadn't imagined his voice on the wind. And if Raoul had misunderstood her, then her Angel certainly would have, possessing far more self-doubts than anyone would believe the Ghost capable of.

The Ghost.

"_I only know my Angel."_

"_Christine, they are one and the same."_

It truly was all her fault. She had run from the Ghost when he had tried to offer her the greatest surety of protection he could. She had run from the Ghost, and in doing so had truly lost her Angel. As she gathered up the now ruined rose petals and stem, her fingers gently caressed each one as it filled her hand before the touches were replaced by her tears. Once she had a complete hold of the flower once more, she let the full pang of her loss consume her. As the floodgates of her tears opened for the second time that day; like the petals, she fell crumpled onto the floor, silently begging for her Angel to be restored to her.

Knowing it was hopeless.

* * *

**AN: And I bet you weren't expecting that last section! Apologies to anyone who likes 'All I Ask Of You' and was expecting me to use it in accordance with the other POTO music that's been found in here thus far. Whilst I do acknowledge that it is a lovely song, it makes our favourite phantom cry every time it's sung, and so it is therefore evil. That's my reasoning, and I don't think it would have worked here.**

**I haven't specifically asked for a very long time, so I hope you'll forgive me, but PLEASE let me know what you think! That really was hard, and I'm dying to know if I pulled it off or not. Thanks again. Nedjmet.**


	68. Chapter 67

**Author's Note: Apologies (again!) for the slight delay. I was hoping to post this yesterday, but (again!) it was really difficult to write, but it's a longer chapter, so hopefully you'll forgive me.**

**Well, I asked for responses, and you guys were your usual brilliant selves and gave them, so thanks to: CarolROI, montaquecat, KyrieofAccender, steelelf, Lair Lover, mikabronxgirl, snowflake17, Busanda, Rose of Night, jtbwriter, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, terbear, Lady Winifred, grannydaisytoo, Earelwen, TalithaJ, Spectralprincess, Lothiel, Passed Over and mildetryth for their latest reviews. Quadruple thank you to Lady Wen and a mega thank you to melodic Rose for some incredible catch up reading. But to all my reviewers: an extra big thank you. Your responses were so encouraging to me - as always. And they meant so much more because I was nervous about that last chapter, so I'm really glad you all liked it. Thanks again everyone, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 67

If the thought of being in the Dean's office had filled her with dread before, now she felt little besides terror – something which seemed to be popping up an awful lot of late. This time, though, Dr Poligny was sat by her side. His presence did nothing to ease Christine's mind though, seeing as on the other side of the desk were two policemen who, from their expressions, did not seem to think very much of her at all.

"Miss Daaë, further to an emergency call placed by one Mrs. Giry-"

"Madame." Christine quietly interrupted the seated of the two officers who had begun.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Madame Giry. She'd be insulted if you called her anything else." Detective Milfroid shifted in his seat, a little disgruntled at being corrected by the hitherto silent and timid young woman before him.

"An emergency call placed by one Madame Giry, several of my officers were dispatched here, to the Ravelle Institution, to investigate an attempted sexual assault made against you." Christine's eyes flew up to meet her interviewer in surprise, having not been told of this before. Taking a very interested note in her reaction, the detective continued: "Shortly after meeting Madame Giry, she was called away due to a performance that was being given; a performance which you were playing a part in, and one I have been led to believe was the subject of much controversy."

Christine remained silent, recognising what he was doing, refusing to take the opportunity and give him what he was looking for.

"Approximately ten minutes into the first act, the performance was interrupted by a man's voice; after an attempt to continue, it was interrupted almost immediately by the leading lady's sudden inability to sing. A dance number was brought forward, which saw the end of the performance when the body of one Joseph Buquet was dropped from the flies." Christine could not help the shudder that coursed through her veins as he recounted those awful events so detachedly.

"Miss Daaë? Do you agree with what I've said so far?" Milfroid pressed, still getting nothing but silence from her.

"Yes." She answered with as much strength as she could put into her voice, though it still came out as a whisper.

Amidst all the confusion, it had not been hard for Madame Giry to persuade both the police and Christine that it would be best if she stayed at her house for the time being, not wanting her daughter to be left alone anymore. It had taken no small amount of persuasion to get Raoul to return to his own home, but the ballet mistress was a force to be reckoned with, and so he had eventually been dismissed. However, given the prestige of the Ravelle and the tremendous number of witnesses, not to mention the sinister events leading up to the disastrous performance, Christine's interview could not be put off, and so the following morning found her in the Dean's office once again.

Seeing as Madame Giry had played a part in last night's happenings, she was unable to be present as Christine's guardian – a guardian being required since she was still legally a child. Dr Poligny had been happy to step in on behalf of the Ravelle, but also because he too was genuinely concerned about the young girl who, it seemed, had so unwittingly and unfortunately captured everyone's attention.

"You seemed surprised when I mentioned Madame Giry had called us." Clearly expecting some sort of comment, Christine at last gave in to Milfroid.

"With . . . everything that happened, she didn't tell me. I wasn't surprised that she had, though." She answered quietly. The inspector looked at her steadily for a few moments, assessing her whilst simultaneously making sure she was aware of the fact. To her credit, Christine didn't flinch under that professional scrutiny, not did she look away.

"I've read the statement you gave about your assault. Based on the evidence," he began, referring to the now prominent bruise that darkened Christine's cheek, and the DNA that had sickeningly been taken from various places on her body which matched Buquet's, "I cannot argue that an attempted assault did take place." At her look of indignation, the detective went on. "But you must understand why I would want to. Miss Daaë, these are very grave circumstances which find you at the centre of them. You are what connects the tragedies of last night, and where there is such a strong connection, there is often a motive to be found."

Christine rapidly paled, the full weight of her 'interview' sinking in.

"Inspector, you cannot seriously be suggesting-"

"Dr Poligny, may I remind you that your capacity here is as a guardian to Miss Daaë. Unless you have any serious objections as to how I conduct this interview, I must ask you to remain quiet. Miss Daaë must also understand that this is an avenue of questioning that has to be explored if there is to be any chance of clearing her of any blame." Milfroid answered Poligny's interruption, addressing each of them in turn.

"What do you want to ask?" Christine spoke, her old mask slipping firmly into place, having almost forgotten just how much she needed the distance it offered to survive an interview.

Realising that he now had her full attention, and more cooperation than she had hitherto been offering, Milfroid sat back in his chair a little more, the creaking of the old leather speaking of the power his position in the present circumstances afforded.

"Tell me about this rivalry between yourself and Miss Guidacelli."

"I can only give you the side that I know." She answered carefully.

"That's all I was expecting." She hated being humoured.

"Based on her behaviour, the way she reacted to the recognition she was given because of her mother, it was pretty obvious from the start that Carlotta didn't want or expect anything less than centre stage, no matter whether it was a lesson or a performance. And it's what she was given.

"When the year started, I was effectively mute, but I was classed as a coloratura. She took quite a few opportunities to make fun of my 'situation'. The rivalry started in a lesson where she was asked to demonstrate a song to the class. It had some Gaelic in, which she was told to leave, seeing as she couldn't pronounce it. The piece was very important to me and she was destroying the music, so I took over. Until that point, nobody knew I'd got my voice back. She wasn't very happy to say the least.

"It got worse when I ended up hitting her because she badly insulted my father. He . . . he died a few months ago. We were both offered the finales of the Christmas Concert, but she only got the first act, whereas I got the one at the end of the show. It didn't really help any that her mother is one of the patrons of the Ravelle: I think she felt that should have secured her an easier ride or something.

"The rivalry that you referred to earlier began when I was favoured for, and eventually received the lead in _Hannibal_, and again in _Il Muto_."

Milfroid was surprised when she stopped, but no more so than by the amount of information she had offered. Something about her made him believe that it would be easily corroborated by the staff and students.

"You say you were favoured for the lead in _Hannibal_. Quite an honour for a first-year student. How do you know that was the case?"

"Professor Gardiner told me after the parts were announced."

"And what did he tell you?" The vague nature of her answer was a sharp contrast to the information she had just relayed.

"That he was hoping to cast me in the lead based on my performance in the concert."

"Anything else?" Milfroid was leaning forward now, his anticipation clear even beneath the scrutiny. Closing her eyes, Christine took a breath, knowing where this was going and praying _he_ would understand.

"He mentioned a note he'd received from the Opera Ghost, recommending me for the lead." She answered quietly.

"Recommending?"

"Strongly recommending. He said those recommendations are usually more like instructions." Her voice had all but trailed off completely by the end of her elaboration, knowing that there was little she could do to both satisfy them and clear herself of any guilt in their eyes without placing it all at her Angel's feet.

Milfroid came around from behind to sit on the desk in front of Christine, either missing or ignoring the affronted look of Dr Poligny at seeing his furniture treated with such impropriety and disregard.

"I've seen the note, Miss Daaë. And the similar ones sent regarding _Il Muto_. I've also spoken to the certain members of both the staff and student body here, several of whom have identified a suspect in the case of Joseph Buquet's murder. Now I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to think very carefully about your answer: do you know the Opera Ghost."

Christine refused to let her eyes leave those of the man seated in front of her, even though her mind was not registering the sight of him.

All night she had been plagued by what had happened, the horrors of life yet again depriving her of her rest. All night she had seen Buquet's face distorted with anger, pain and finally death. And each time she had seen the latter, it had been accompanied by another startlingly white face; but one that had never known life. The leather mask was only half of a face, just as it was only half of the man who had looked down upon the chaos he had created in triumph. That half was the Ghost: the figure who dictated the workings of the Ravelle, who struck terror into the hearts of staff and students alike, who, with no compunction of guilt, humiliated and threatened all those who stood in his way. That was the cold figure who had once again taken her dreams and brought nightmares back to her on the swift wings of Death.

That was not her Angel.

That shadow could not save her from the darkness only to plunge her back into its torrid depths. Her Angel had sought to protect her, to comfort her, to guide her, to care for her . . . he cared for her. He would not do this, surely. The role of Elissa had been won through his machinations, but she had told him what death had done to her, had shown him each of the marks that it had left on her life. Her Angel would not turn his hand against her so violently when only minutes before he had held her with all the care of a father and more.

That was not the Ghost.

And despite the words that had come back to haunt her on the roof mere hours ago, she knew her answer.

"No, Inspector. I do not know the Opera Ghost."

"Miss Daaë, these notes would suggest otherwise." Was that a hint of frustration in his voice?

"I was under the impression he had written several notes before I came here. Do the people who got those know him? Do the people he wrote about know him?" The quiet calm with which she spoke began to grate on Milfroid's nerves. No schoolgirl should be this good.

"Any previous notes did not lead to murder. The last one clearly threatened a disaster, and you, Miss Daaë, are the only link we have in this mess. You are the one who would benefit the most by Miss Guidacelli's inability to perform; you had a motive for revenge against Mr Buquet; and yours is the only presence that has so far been unaccounted for at more than one interval last night. Now I will ask you one last time – and may I remind you that if you are in anyway implicated, you risk facing charges of accessory to murder as well as perjury – tell me, Miss Daaë: do you know the Opera Ghost?"

"No." Milfroid was barely given time to finish his question before she answered. He certainly wasn't given time to respond to her emphatic declaration. "As for what you are suggesting: Madame Giry took me to my dressing room after Buquet attacked me, where I stayed until I was called onto stage. I didn't see Carlotta or go anywhere near her or anything belonging to her after the last rehearsal. After the managers announced I'd be singing, I went straight to my dressing room with Madame Giry because I only had ten minutes to get into a very difficult costume. Shortly after, I returned to the stage; and if you want anymore details, you can ask Raoul de Chagny, Inspector, because I am tired of justifying myself to you when I have done nothing wrong."

"And yet you still managed to be at the centre of everyone's attention." The Inspector mused, trying to push her one last time. It worked.

"I did not ask for any of this!" Christine yelled, springing to her feet, though she was unable to tower over the man.

"Oh, but it worked out ever so conveniently for you regardless, with the exception of last night's unfortunate little incidents." Her interrogator sneered. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself, trying not to break; trying to hold back the tears that were welling up, threatening to choke her again.

"For my parents' sake, I have only ever wanted to succeed because of my own ability, my own talent. I didn't want it to be because of who I am or who I knew. I wanted to earn any success I received. If I could have stopped what happened last night, I would have, and if you don't believe that then you're in the wrong profession, Detective." The last word she spoke with some evident distaste.

"Then why has this Ghost shown such interest in you?"

"I wish I knew." She answered, filled with hopelessness. Why had he shown such interest in her, such devotion if only to hurt her this way? Why had he saved her only to leave her worse off than before?

Milfroid gestured for her to have a seat again, before turning the interview over to his partner who had thus far remained silent.

"Miss Daaë, I am Detective Inspector Lachenel. You said that 'for the sake of your parents', you wanted to earn your way. What do you mean by that?" Christine pursed her lips and looked past Dr Poligny, out of the window, trying to keep up the dam holding the floodgates at bay.

"They were both concert musicians. My mother died when I was six and my father . . . he was killed last summer. But they both taught me well. Amongst other things, they told me that I should make the most of my gift and not rely on their names or anything else, otherwise I wouldn't be worthy of any success."

"And you believe Miss Guidacelli does that? Is that why you dislike her?" She raised her eyes to his, wondering at this new, and gentler line of questioning.

"I never respected her, because it was obvious what she was doing. I only started to dislike her when she went out of her way to bother me."

"You say your father was killed?" Christine's eyes lowered once more.

"Gentlemen, is this really necessary? I'm sure you or your colleagues have files on the matter." Poligny protested, remembering all too keenly the last time this subject had been raised in his office. Christine's soft whispers silenced him.

"A fire started in our home. He died saving my life. And yes, Doctor, they do have files. They took statements from me I don't know how many times." She looked straight at Milfroid as she went on, her voice growing stronger as it hardened. "They pestered me with their questions even though my father had just died the most horrific death, even though I'd seen his body destroyed by the burns he'd tried to save me from. They kept asking me the same things over and over even though I didn't have any voice to answer with. Yes, the fire took my voice. That's why I was mute, though you seem to have forgotten to go over that one, gentlemen. As if what happened wasn't bad enough, they kept trying to make me feel like I was some kind of criminal, even though I'd just lost the one person I loved above everyone else, the one person who gave me any kind of hope in this world – the one person who WAS my world. They wouldn't leave me alone!"

Once more she was one her feet, only this time it didn't matter that she couldn't tower over them; they felt six inches tall anyway.

"Miss Daaë, you have my sincerest apologies, but you must understand-"

"Oh, I understand, Inspector Milfroid. I am the only link you have in this whole mess. I'm the one the Ghost decided to write about in his notes. So therefore, I must be the one who knows what on earth he's playing at. Well I don't! All I know is that the Ghost has brought death back into my life again. You tell me, Inspector, you tell me why I could possibly want or consciously play any part in that."

He didn't. He couldn't. All he could do was end the interview, attempt to apologise once more and watch with a slack jaw as the young woman left the room as quickly as possible. And later regret his good cop bad cop routine when he read all the reports of the Daaë fire, saw for himself what had happened to her and was then promptly tormented with nightmares similar to the ones she had endured. Though nowhere near as horrific, they still managed to seriously disrupt his sleep for a few nights.

* * *

Though every scrap of reason within him was telling him not to, he still went, still listened, still watched over her. It would seem that with his rose, he could do no less. The old urge that had been awoken in him yesterday, once more leapt to the surface as he saw that boy sat outside with Antoinette, waiting for her, as though he had some right to be there. Well, he was certainly not going to be kept waiting outside. 

When he laid eyes on her, all thoughts of what happened last night were swept aside as he saw the state she was in. Clearly she hadn't slept, and even more clearly, she was beyond distressed by the situation she was in. Instantly, he found himself loathing the two strangers – policemen – who had apparently affected her so. He found his respect for Poligny growing: he at least was able and willing to properly support Christine.

_Christine_

Her name slipped through his mind as easily as it had slipped through his lips under that fateful diamond sky. And he remembered her words once more. How easily she had turned to her little _sweetheart_ for comfort. Yes, that was why he was here: not for her; he had to ensure she was not so talkative to these _gentlemen_ as she had been earlier.

That was why.

Curious that they should begin with what went on between Christine and the toad. He couldn't help the smirk that lifted his lips: never had he enjoyed his gift of ventriloquism so much. It soon became apparent why they had chosen that route of questioning: was it really so easy for her to give him away!

_No . . . I do not know the Opera Ghost._

She protected him. By denying knowledge of him, she could not be expected to reveal anything about him. Or was she merely denying him again? Washing her hands of him once and for all? She knew he watched and listened within the Ravelle – enough! Forcing his concentration back to the matter at hand, he listened with outrage as she was basically accused of what he had done. Were it not bad enough that his handiwork was being credited to someone else, she was far too gentle to ever attempt such a thing. Nor was her heart capable of the ruthless cruelty necessary for such deeds.

Or was it?

How could she question why he had sought her? Had he not made it plain? When he had taken her to his home he had poured out everything that he was for her, shown her his hopes, given her his music . . . offered her his love. And yet, she brushed it aside with four little words.

His thoughts were interrupted once more as she spoke – or rather yelled – about her father. The fervour of the love she still held for her parent overrode any concern she should have otherwise felt about her voice. The conviction with which she uttered those words silenced any further questions from those fools – and stirred admiration within all those who could hear her. One of whom still could not help but wish she would speak similar words with such conviction about him. He got half his wish as he heard her utter with that same conviction:

_All I know is that the Ghost has brought death back into my life again. You tell me, Inspector, you tell me why I could possibly want or consciously play any part in that._

Death.

Not music.

Death.

That's all he was to her. All those times when she had held him . . . kissed him . . . offered him those little signs of affection, of respect: he had actually dared to hope they were the beginnings of something more, something so wonderful he could scarcely even think of . . . love. But now he knew for certain: he was death, from head to toe, all that he was. And she was like everyone else by seeing only that and not the music he had given to her.

No!

Not like everyone else. He had not opened himself up so much to anyone else; not offered so much of his time, his gifts, his heart to anyone else. No one else could have twisted the knife so deeply as she. And like a fool he had let her.

Once more his rage was complete. But this time, it was not alone. This time, it was accompanied by the bitter stabs of betrayal.

He watched her walk away. And let her go. Anyone else would have instantly tasted his wrath. But not her. No. Anyone else would never have managed to get as close as she. Anyone else would never have filled his world, his thoughts, his music like she had.

And that is exactly how he would teach her the price of betrayal.

The work he had begun for her would be completed: but with a new purpose.

Turning, away, he did not even consider seeing that she got home safely: he had his own to return to. His own home, where the music sheets awaited him. Already the black notes filled his mind in frenetic rhythms and crescendos. And those notes were black indeed. Yes, he would complete the work he had begun for her, for she would not defeat him. She would not be rid of him merely with those callous words: he still had lessons to teach. The opera had been filled with love, devotion and reverence. No more. That was the stuff fairytales are made of. And this was no fairytale. Yes, there would be _love_, but he would show its true colours to the world, the real side of it that life offered: passion, betrayal and anger.

His opera would be worthy of her indeed. His final lesson to his little rose.

The lesson of _Don Juan Triumphant_!

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**AN: OK, I'm getting back trouble from ducking all the missiles you keep sending me. I know you were hoping for some ECness, or at least the beginnings of a resolution to the situation. Sorry! This was part of the plan. Rest assured, the wait will not be very long in getting those two back together again (by which, I mean 'in the same room'). I'd apologise for the evil cliffhanger, but I think by now you know that I'm not really. I'll try and get the next chapter written ASAP for you though, seeing as I have a fair idea of what's going on. Thanks again. N.**


	69. Chapter 68

**Author's Note: Apologies if this feels a bit short. I was going to try and get more content/happenings into it, but it didn't quite work out that way. And I hate writing filler. Hopefully there'll only be one more chapter of it before we get actual plot though.**

**Thanks to CarolROI, Mystery Guest, Soignante, TouchingTrusting, Timeflies, KyrieofAccender, jtbwriter, snowflake17, Melodic Rose, montaquecat, Lady Winifred, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Passed Over, Busanda, Rose of Night, Metamorphosis x and mildetryth for their latest reviews. Extra special thank you to Metamorphosis x for catching up with whole story in a day! WOW! Well, enough babbling from me, I shall let you get on with this. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 68

_Miss Daaë_

_May I remind you that my Opera House is a place of music, not a hotel?_

_OG_

She stared at the crumpled note in her hand, still both unable and unwilling to comprehend it. Having resolved not to keep Mother Giry and Meg awake again with her nightmares, and having finally persuaded her, Christine had once again borrowed Madame Giry's key and made her way to the main theatre. The police tape was still around the auditorium, and the paths and stairways that led to the flies, the harsh yellow and black ribbon still a vivid reminder of all that had happened . . . of all that had been done. Suppressing a shudder that did not come from the night's chill, Christine carefully made her way to her dressing room.

Strange: that she should seek solace from the old consuming darkness in the very place that had caused it to threaten her again. And yet within the darkness was a light that had saved her in the past, and that she hoped would find her again. For if she could find its source, perhaps she too could bring him back from whatever darkness he had slipped into. Fingering the envelope in her pocket, she thought of the crumpled rose petals it held. It was the last 'communication' she had received from her Angel, and she still dreaded the full weight of their meaning. Since last night, even in spite of her 'interview' – although interrogation would be more accurate – even though she had tried to protect her Angel, she had still heard nothing from him. And so she was resolved to seek him out. That, and this was _his_ Opera House: perhaps his proximity would ease her troubled mind, even if he refused to do so with his presence.

Nothing felt the same.

When she entered her dressing room and lit the few necessary lights, she could still feel the shiver of outside. Curling up on the couch, she tried to recall when last she had been sat here, safe in her Angel's arms, knowing nothing other than his warm, secure embrace. Knowing nothing other than contentment and . . . happiness. Feeling complete.

In that moment, as in so many others, he had been her world. And he was gone.

'_the one person who gave me any kind of hope in this world – the one person who WAS my world'._

She'd said that hadn't she? When she was talking about her father, but she had said it to get this latest set of police to leave her alone. It had worked for both of the men who had been in her life. What else had she said . . .? She sat up in wonder.

She'd spoken of the one person she loved above all others.

That had definitely been about her father. But his wasn't the only face she had seen as she'd spoken, or she wouldn't have said all that she had. Why . . .? What did that mean? Did she . . . was that why she felt she had been cut in half, why the darkness was once again such a consuming void? Or was it simply that she was weak and had grown as dependent on her teacher as she had her father? Was she still so much of a child that she must rely so heavily on a man to complete her world, on someone else to provide her with music? Was she still so much of a child that she believed she must live and breathe that music in order to survive?

Pacing in frustration as her mind swirled with questions, she eventually gave up, too overcome with all the confusion and shock of the last forty-eight hours to give it anymore thought. Throwing herself back onto the couch, she attempted to sleep – it was why she had come here, after all. But her mind refused to be still. And there was no sign of her Angel. She couldn't feel his presence, or hear his music – and this building should have been filled with it. Instead, the silence oppressed her just as much as the air chilled her. Even though she had turned enough lights on, it still felt as though the shadows were creeping in around her.

Closing her eyes, she searched through her mind, trying to find something, anything to send the darkness away. And without realising, her lips began to move, the music pouring out of them as it filled her mind. Though there was no Angel to sing with her, the memories of that night just about managed to be an adequate accompaniment. Though not quite the blissful contentment she had hoped for, in the silence of her solitude she managed to find some small measure of peace. Her memories filled with thoughts of her Angel and she surrendered to her dreams, praying that that was all they would be.

When she awoke, it was with some disorientation. Of course: she had never slept on the couch before – he'd never let her. Her smile at the thought soon faded as she spied something on her dressing table: something that had not been there before.

Though she knew where, or more to the point _who_ it had come from, the black edged parchment worried her so much she feared even touching it. The red skull seal glared up at her with sightless eyes as though daring her to break it and reveal the contents within. Why would her Angel communicate with her this way? With trembling fingers she broke the seal and read the missive.

And reread it.

And slowly crumpled it in her hand as tears streamed down her unseeing eyes. Her mouth hung open slightly. He never addressed her so formally except in cold anger. Yet there it was: and with it were the words that effectively said she was no longer welcome in his Opera House.

She racked her brain trying to think of what else she had done, what had been said. Surely he could not have misinterpreted her so far that he would . . .

_All I know is that the Ghost has brought death back into my life again. You tell me, Inspector, you tell me why I could possibly want or consciously play any part in that._

The Ghost. She had meant the Ghost, not her Angel.

"_You said you didn't know the Opera Ghost."_

"_I don't. I only know my Angel."_

"_Christine, they are one and the same."_

He didn't understand the distinction she made between his two personas, because in truth there was no distinction. Her Angel was the Ghost. Her Angel was the one who ran the theatre through notes and threats and fear. The Ghost was the one who had brought her out of the darkness with his haunting, unearthly music. Her Angel was the one who had k. . .

NO!

No matter what her eyes had seen, no matter what she was told or how many times, she could not place that label on her Angel. And yet unwittingly, she had. Worst of all, she had done so with a cold, harsh dismissal that he had no doubt heard.

And she truly was alone.

Slowly, almost without thinking, she reached into her pocket and took out the envelope containing the last gift of her Angel and put it down in place of the note. Mechanically she made her way out of the dressing room – no longer feeling able to call it her own, even subconsciously – before heading back to the Giry house. Her second mother was already up – the old disciplines of a dancer having never faded in her. She took one look at the stricken face of her second daughter and wrapped the poor girl in fierce embrace.

Eventually they sat at the kitchen table and Antoinette managed to prise the crumpled parchment out of Christine's fingers. Reading it over twice just to be sure, she let it rest on the table and could only whisper:

"Oh, my dear."

Christine heard, though she gave no sign, instead, she reached for the paper that she had scrunched up so thoughtlessly. Handling it as carefully as she had the rose petals on the roof, she smoothed out the creases as best she could, though she couldn't bear to look at the words as they appeared. The note, like the rose, would never be the same, would never again hold to the standard of perfection he demanded in all that he did, but if that was all he was leaving her with, then it had to be preserved somehow. It seemed right somehow: that instead of the perfection he intended, it was marred . . . almost . . . human.

She couldn't give up her Angel just yet, even if he had finally given up on her.

"Come child, you need something to take your mind off all this. Perhaps-"

Antoinette was spared the lunacy of trying to suggest anything that could distract her daughter from her current state of mind by someone knocking at her door. Opening it, she found Raoul stood there, asking after Christine. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell her that it was a bad time when a quiet voice they both recognised spoke from behind her.

"Hello, Raoul."

As the two headed into the living room, Antoinette resolved to deal with this matter today. She had seen Christine's face as she'd smoothed out the note, and it was the very same expression she had worn after she'd kissed her father for the last time: she knew she'd lost someone very important, but was refusing to let it sink in. How her daughter would get through another loss like that, she didn't know. In fact, she doubted she could.

And if she knew her other charge at all, she knew he wouldn't be dealing with it so well. She had warned him that if he hurt Christine, she would make him regret it. Well, he'd done more than hurt her.

And now he had her to deal with.

Strangely, she was actually glad the boy had shown up, even based on her first impressions of him, and the ones she had received from observing the figure concealed in shadow. If Christine welcomed him now, knowing what their relationship had been, perhaps he could bring her out of the despair she was rapidly sinking into. What that would lead to, she could only hope. And dread.

For even though it appeared he had abandoned Christine, Antoinette knew he was far too possessive for that, had spent far too much devotion on her to let her go.

And he had risked too much of his heart to ever give her up to another.


	70. Chapter 69

**AN: It seems that whenever I write one of these nowadays, I find myself apologising. Well, not wanting to break with the new found tradition (written with tongue firmly in cheek), here we go again. Sorry for the delay. I know I said I'd still update every week. Unfortunately, a few things known as life and uni got in the way. Plus, some sections of this chapter were tricky to write, and even though I could have posted half of it as a complete chapter a while ago, I really wanted to get it all out of the way so we could get on with the plot in the next chapter. Again, apologies. I have been having a huge guilt trip over this. Thanks for sticking with me, though. I really do appreciate it, and I WILL be completing this story.**

**I'd like to dedicate this chapter to WindPhoenix - I haven't forgotten about you - and KyrieofAccender - thanks for checking up on me.**

**In case I confused anyone other than Passed Over, the note in the last chapter was just the bit at the start; any other bits in italics were just thoughts or memories.**

**Thanks to Melodic Rose, steelelf, KyrieofAccender, snowflake17, jtbwriter, Lothiel, Ohpoorerik (funky screen name), TouchingTrusting, mikabronxgirl, Timeflies, Lady Winifred, mildetryth, Passed Over, Spectralprincess, montaquecat and saphireangelcutie for their latest reviews. And again, thanks to all my readers. I know I can't have been easy to put up with in recent chapters, time-wise. Well, here's a longer one for you, so thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 69

The strains of Delibes' _Coppélia_ provided a welcome escape for the occupants of the car as they made their way out of the small town, away from the Ravelle.

For Meg, the whimsical, magical music was a welcome breath of fresh air compared to the morbid atmosphere that had hung heavy over the entire Institute since the disastrous opening of _Il Muto_. Plus it meant that she didn't have to feel like the third wheel in the 'conversations' Christine and her mother kept having. With everything that had happened to Christine, it wasn't surprising that there were some things she only talked to her mother about; after all, there were some things only the two of them talked about – which was why she'd been sent round at the start of the year. Still, since the first performances, Meg had felt more and more as though she was being kept in the dark about something; and after _Il Muto_, it had only gotten worse, with conversations seemingly riddled with double meanings, knowing glances being exchanged, and Christine and her mother staying up at all hours talking about who knows what. Once she heard what had happened before the performance and realised the state it had left Christine in, she stopped begrudging the other two members of her family their secrets; but each day that passed with Christine still refusing to confide in her at all left it all the harder for her to remember. It wasn't simply idle curiosity that frustrated her, it was the fact that her sister had gone back to being the same grieving shell as when her father died; the fact that she was wasting away again and she had no clue as to why. Christine was wearing the mysteries of her grief like a shroud and it refused to budge. Even when Raoul came to visit, the smiles she wore never touched her eyes. He seemed content, but to anyone who knew her, it was just an act. Pity really, he had everything going for him otherwise. All in all, this trip was a relief: at least away from the Ravelle all the mysteries and gloom could be pushed aside for a few days.

* * *

For Christine, the light-hearted, carefree dances that took up a good portion of the ballet were a stark contrast to the background story of Dr Coppélius lovingly trying to bring the doll Coppelia to life; and though it felt a little too close to home, it seemed right somehow, as though it were the soundtrack for her thoughts. The last few weeks had been filled with light-hearted moments, but she had not been carefree enough to give herself up to them. Raoul had been true to his word in trying to relive the summers they had spent together as children. After Mama had died, she and her father had always spent a week or two of the holidays travelling, seeing if they could get by with their 'busking' – although more often than not it ended up with their being hired by a café or restaurant for the duration of their stay. It was during one of these summers that they had run into Raoul – quite literally. Christine had been dancing at the seaside, chasing the waves whilst her father had played all sorts of melodies evoking the sea and its moods. Into the mix had come Raoul, chasing after something in the sea, which he assumed to belong to the girl dancing on the edge of the water. Had they been grown, it would have been easy to think it a pick-up technique. Coming from a young boy enchanted by the little dancing angel, it was nothing less than endearing. She never had been able to discover exactly what he was chasing, and whenever questioned, Raoul would always come up with a different answer. It had turned into one of those long running jokes that only family can truly understand and put up with over the years. And with his presence and friendship, that is what Raoul had become once more: another member of the family – although he still felt more like one of those cousins who visits from time to time. With no small amount of conspiring on Meg's part, he had been the one to drag her out of the house for coffee, or to pop round whenever work or the whispers and stares of the students had been getting her down. All in all, he had proved to be a very comforting distraction. But like all diversions, the comfort he offered was only temporary, and when she was left to her thoughts once more, they invariably returned to her Angel; her true source of both comfort and of strife. The last anyone had heard out of him was the note she had received that night – not that anyone outside of Mother Giry knew even of its existence.

And still he haunted her.

When she wasn't reliving it all in her dreams – or rather, nightmares – then her mind would be constantly churning the matter, over and over. He had killed someone. For her. He had killed someone. But no matter how many times those words revolved around her head, she couldn't help but remember why; and that inevitably led to thoughts of everything else he had done in saving her from the darkness, returning her voice beyond anything she could have imagined – and he was always there. Which of course led to the note. It didn't take much thinking to realise why he had abandoned her, but so many times he had implied and even stated outright that he would never do such a thing. Mother Giry had told her he never said anything he didn't mean, so why had he gone back on his word? It had been devastating enough when she'd thought Papa had lied to her about her promised angel. To have her Angel lie to her . . . she couldn't think about that without tears forming, no matter how hard she tried. Once again, her world was crumbling; once again, she was broken; once again, her heart lay with another who was beyond her reach . . .

Christine had spent countless hours on these thoughts with no resolution, only confusion. That's why she was so grateful Mother Giry had suggested this trip. When they finally drew near, the car barely had time to stop before Christine was out and running into the waiting embrace.

"I missed you, Gus-Gus."

* * *

For the first act of Coppélia, Antoinette had spent the drive absent-mindedly choreographing the ballet, with a few exercises and set-pieces thrown in for her classes. It had been a habit of hers ever since she had reached any position of prominence in dancing – although when she had first formed the habit, the dances had been for herself and her colleagues, as opposed to any mere pupils. Eventually, she had realised that the routines were ones she either taught anyway or had used before and she was simply using it as a healthier distraction than her thoughts would have otherwise provided. Not that she should have been distracted as the driver anyway, but it was inevitable – another habit of hers, born from tuning out Meg's prattle to a lower volume if she needed to concentrate on something; not that she ever neglected her daughter's conversation, given the insights it gave her to both Meg and the Ravelle.

It was with something of a heavy heart that she had suggested Christine stay with Gustave for the summer, who had jumped at the chance of a whole six weeks with his 'favourite goddaughter'. Both she and Meg did enjoy having her with them, but the holiday would be a welcome breath of fresh air. The mood at the Ravelle had been unbearably tense and sombre, and given that Christine was the only obvious tangible, living person at the heart of it, she had received no end of attention. Whilst most of it had been confined to looks and whispers, it had not been at all easy for her, given that she felt every single one on top of whatever was going on in her mind anyway. The change would be good for Christine, and perhaps give the student body a chance to forget, or alternatively, to remember that what had happened was the result of the actions of others.

Her main worry, however, lay with one of those 'others'. She dreaded what would happen when he found out – which was inevitable – that she had removed Christine from his reach. No matter how many ways he might have neglected or even abandoned her, he would not give her up: she knew his anger and nature too well for that. And as she watched Christine be swallowed up in Gustave's embrace, she could not help but dread the autumn. For if Christine returned to the Ravelle, she didn't doubt the fury that the Phantom of the Opera would display.

* * *

Antoinette stood in the now dusty dressing room, fervently wishing she had given in to Gustave's persuasions and stayed there. But, she had a duty to the classes she gave outside of the Ravelle. And she had a duty to those in her care. For the first time in a very a long while, she truly felt fear about seeing him, though it didn't once show on her stoic demeanour.

"To what do I owe this intrusion, Madame?" Whirling around in surprise, she was met with the icy glare of the shadow she had been seeking.

So intently had she been watching for the mirror to move that she hadn't heard him enter through the door.

"Since you refused to communicate with me otherwise, you left me no choice but to come."

"And what, pray tell, is so important that you refuse to acknowledge even the most blatant suggestions and leave me to my solitude?" His voice rumbled like velvet thunder, and she knew she was on thin ice even before she had begun.

"What are your intentions?"

A raised eyebrow was the only reply.

"For goodness' sake, you killed a man!" She hissed.

"Madame, he was even less worthy of that title than I." He said slowly, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Be that as it may, you could not have done it without expecting repercussions – and for more than yourself. What are you planning to do?"

"I fail to see how that is any of your concern." He returned, sweeping past her as he made to leave. Ignoring his total disregard for everything she had done for him in the past, she pressed on with her mission.

"Have you forgotten that Christine is my daughter?" Stopping inches from the mirror, he turned, his eyes blazing.

"What of her?" The whisper might as well have been a shout for all the stillness it evoked.

"Surely you saw what it has done to her." He gave a low, mirthless chuckle.

"Oh yes, Madame, I saw exactly what it did to her. She has finally come to her senses and like the rest of the world, now sees me as nothing more than a monster." His answered with a horrifying amount of bitterness and derision.

"You really think so little of her?" His head snapped up.

"What _I_ think of her is of no consequence, Madame." Though neither one of them could believe that.

"You still haven't answered me."

"And I see no reason to. Time will satisfy your curiosity, Madame. Not I." He turned to leave once more.

"I warned you." Stillness.

"Warned me?" His voice had thickened.

"I warned you, long ago: if you did anything to hurt her, that I would make you regret it." Turning slowly, he viewed her out of one eye, his face giving away nothing as she was met only with the mask.

"What are you saying?"

"You hurt her. Not only did you make her doubt the faith she had put in you, you abandoned her. You are the one who healed her, which makes it all the worse because you are the one who has broken her again!"

"Where is she?" The whisper sounded half strangled, desperate. Antoinette hesitated, suddenly uncertain of how to phrase it.

"Where is she?!" It was now a demand as he moved to stand fully before her.

"She is gone." An icy dagger stabbed into the heart he had thought could feel no more.

"Where?" Knowing he would not ask again, she acquiesced.

"She is spending the summer with Gustave. I don't know if she will decide to return, or if we will allow it." She heard the creaking leather of the gloves and saw his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled to maintain what little control he had left over his temper.

"She will return."

"You cannot-" A hand around her throat silenced her.

"She will return. See to it, Madame, or I swear to you: you know not the depths of my vengeance." Releasing her, he returned to the mirror and opening it, threw over his shoulder:

"If you truly wish to know my 'intentions' to the Ravelle and to your charge, you will find your answer when she returns. In the meantime, do not seek me out again, or the consequences will rest on your head alone."

In a flurry of shadows, he was gone, leaving Antoinette facing her reflection as she caught her breath back. Silently, she prayed for guidance, dreading bringing Christine back to this, unwilling to even contemplate what would happen if she didn't. Her fleeting thoughts on repaying him for what he had done to her second daughter could not have been further from her mind as revenge was replaced with the most dreadful worry.

How was it so much had come to rest on the fragile shoulders of one poor girl?

* * *

"Are you alright, Uncle Gustave?"

Christine's hand rested on his shoulder, concerned over his stark white pallor. He didn't answer, didn't raise his eyes. Instead he took the hand resting on his shoulder and used it to draw her into a firm embrace. She wasn't surprised, having just told him everything that had happened since he'd seen her last. After all, there was no one who had offered as much guidance on the matter as him since it had begun.

He held her for a long time, otherwise unable to take in all that she had told him. As he replayed her words in his mind, trying to fathom everything, his hold on her tightened, as though to assure himself that she was still here, still in one piece. Eventually, he relaxed the embrace and allowed her to breathe as he asked with a shaky voice:

"What do you plan to do?"

"Do?"

"You can't stay there, my child. Nothing you have said could persuade me that it is safe for you anymore."

"I can't leave." He stared at her, unbelieving.

"Of course you can. We could call them right now and withdraw you from the school; I could have a firm collect your things from that house and you could-"

"Gus-Gus, I _can't_ leave. Not while he's still there." Looking into her eyes, and seeing the conviction there, he caught a glimpse of what she was really saying. Determined to understand and in a continuing attempt to persuade her, he tried again.

"Christine, he's a murderer. I understand that you might have some loyalty towards him because of this ruse of his with being the Angel, but that just proves how much he's manipulated you. He lied to you, played on your emotions and dependency on him at every turn. How many times did he frighten you? How many times did he demand your presence instead of allowing you to live a normal life? Christine, if he is willing to kill to get what he wants, how can you be sure he won't hurt you more than he already has? How can you even think you'll be safe?"

Christine, at some point during all of this, had lowered her head. Such thoughts had filled her mind ever since . . . that night. Hearing them said aloud by one from whom she was hoping for guidance; each was like a knife in her heart, yet though they stabbed, they also cut away everything until one thought remained, immovable.

"He loves me." Raising her eyes, she met the troubled gaze of her second father. "The dress, what he said that first night. He loves me. I know he does. When he holds me, it's as though he daren't, as though he's afraid I'll break; but at the same time like I'm the most precious thing. That's why he . . . why he killed Buquet. It was his way of protecting me, caring for me."

"My dear, any of us would have felt the same about what the man tried to do, but it does not justify the act of murder."

"What if he doesn't know any better? How long must he have lived down there? Oh, Uncle Gustave, if you could see his home . . . it must have taken so long to accomplish all that. And the way he behaves: hiding away is a reflex for him. He probably doesn't know anything beyond the shadows he's lived in." Christine's face went from shining to being on the verge of weeping as these thoughts came to her.

"And you would return to such a man?"

"He didn't lie to me about being an angel. He's _my_ Angel." She repeated with the same conviction she had used to the subject of their conversation, so long ago.

"An 'angel' who discarded you." At her broken look, Gustave almost regretted his words, but she needed to see the full reality of the situation – and he needed to know.

"We've both made mistakes. I know who and what he is, Uncle Gustave."

"Do you?" She took a breath, measuring each thought in her mind, knowing somehow that her words would decide whether or not she would return, either by her guardians' decision or her own.

"I've thought of little else over the past few weeks. I know he's killed. I know he deceived me at first, and I know how . . . demanding he is. But he's the one who made me feel alive again. What is a normal life for me? How many times have you all called me a child of Music? That's what he gave me; Gus-Gus, he gave me my music! No one else could have done that. He gave me my world again, and I have to go back to him. He needs me. We need each other. Otherwise our music will die, and I can't go through that again."

Gustave stared at the woman before him. His Lotte truly had grown up. Though she continued to refer to music, he knew what was really meant behind it, and he had a feeling at least one part of her did too.

Which meant he had no choice but to let her return.


	71. Chapter 70

**Author's Note: Thanks to Lothiel, Busanda, Melodic Rose, Carol ROI, jtbwriter, Timeflies, Lady Winifred, Ohpoorerik, KyrieofAccender, Spectralprincess, Freetrader, TalithaJ, Passed Over, montaquecat, mildetryth and snowflake17 for their latest reviews.**

**Word of warning: I do believe the first half of this chapter is what could be described as angst, but it is beneficial to the plot, but if that isn't your thing, you've been warned.**

**Now, seeing as a few of you were jumping up and down over what he did to Madame Giry, I've addressed that here. And by way of apology for all the delays - and because I just couldn't seem to stop writing this - here's a mega chapter for you. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 70

Fingering the crumpled and now blackened rose petals, he looked once more at the bound manuscript before him. It was his masterpiece. Every note he had written before now had finally culminated into one complete score. It was everything that he was. How right was it then that the source of his masterpiece and his inspiration, the one instrument he had crafted into perfection beyond all others should grant him this . . . vision by betrayal? How true a picture of his life was it that he was granted the key to his triumph by a hand wielding the most bitter of blades?

The colour had faded from the petals, their shape twisted and distorted; there was no beauty left in them now, save perhaps in the memory of what had once been. His gift to her, and she had returned it. Empty. He had offered her all that he was, given her the finest music of his creation, taught her the beauty of the shadows she ran from, brought her to life. And she had willingly taken it all. And she had run. Leaving him with the cold stab of rejection. It was a blow he had felt countless times in his life, but never had it been so cruel, not even as a child when he had received it from his own mother.

When she had returned to his domain that night he had hoped . . . what? Even now he could not find the words. What hope was there for a creature like him?

_Christine_

The forbidden name crept past his lips, or had he whispered it so much into these lifeless caverns that it simply echoed back to him of its own accord? One word. One name. Just a little thing. How often were such things taken for granted by those in the world above, by those who had use of such things? How often must she hear it said to her each day without even realising its power? So rare had he given it to her, for he treasured its possession too much to squander it; for within that name was sweeter music than he could ever hope to write, within that name was the answer: his hope.

No more.

Amazingly, he had been glad of those incompetent fools who presumed upon the title of 'police', for they had granted him his precious solitude in what would otherwise have been a very busy – and noisy – time of the year. Ordinarily, all the chaos and stresses of the end of year activities would have filtered down into his lair, but now there was only . . . silence. Blissful quiet in which to lose himself. Peace in which to let his music flow. But the music had not flowed this time: it had shattered through everything, settling for nothing less than complete dominance over all.

Until she came.

Even amidst the tumult of notes clamouring for supremacy, he still heard her. She had returned to him? _Fool!_ She had made herself perfectly clear on that score. What then? Had she come to complete her betrayal? Was it not enough that she had chosen that pathetic _boy_, she now had to reveal his sanctuary to the world, to lay him open to their censure? Until that moment, he had never been tempted to raise a hand against her, but as he reached for the familiar length of rope, he could not stop the thought from entering his mind. It soon fled, to be replaced by an overwhelming self-contempt that threatened to choke him. Raising his eyes to his potentially greatest masterpiece, he looked into her eyes, willing them to come to life, to see that calm, serene face look on him without fear or abhorrence. It did not happen. Of course not. Mannequins do not come to life beyond the stage, and yet some small measure of that serenity still passed onto him, pushing those previous thoughts aside.

Whatever she had come for, he would face it. This was still his domain, and he still remained a force to be reckoned with. And it was time for her to remember that.

Taking the familiar route, he soon found himself behind the mirror, though he refused to let his presence be felt by her in any way.

What power was it she held that she could crush even his most iron of resolves simply by being there?

The sight of her curled up on the couch brought the memories flooding back of when he had last seen her there, of the way he had called out to her, held her; of the way she had clung onto him as though he was the very air she breathed. She had trusted him them, had called him 'Angel', had-

_Enough!_

When she got up, he was startled, disbelieving that she could have heard him. Surely she had not made him so remiss in his habits? She paced, a frown creasing her soft brow. Were her thoughts of him, of being within his realm, now so troubled that she could not even sit still? He was astonished when she threw herself back onto the couch and curled up underneath a blanket. She wished to sleep here? Why not in the sanctuary Antoinette had no doubt provided?

Seeing that her eyes were closed, he silently slipped out from his hiding place and moved so that he could see her better, whilst remaining beyond her sight. Her face remained troubled. Until her lips began to move. He could not help moving forward to try and catch some sound from her, wondering at her thoughts. He froze as his wish was granted. Softly, ever so softly, she was singing _Lift the Wings_ again.

He sank against the wall. Even though there was barely breath behind her singing, even though she was not using her voice to anything like its full potential, it was still so beautiful. As her voice died away into sleep, so did her frown.

_She used to sing that song as a goodbye . . ._

The beauty of the moment was shattered. It had been her mother's farewell to him, and now she was . . . ? NO!! She dared presume to take shelter in his realm, simultaneously turning away from him for good? Oh, no doubt she found something touching in the fact that she was saying goodbye in a musical way and sought to lessen whatever it was she feared by trying to evoke one of their pleasanter memories. Yes, she was a clever little minx, wasn't she?

But he was NOT to be used and discarded so.

And yet she still had this hold over him. When he left the note for her, he could not keep his resolve, instead turning to look at her one more time as she lay peacefully. His hand reached out of its own volition and ghosted along her jaw, though he retained enough resolve that he didn't touch. He didn't bother thinking about why he couldn't keep his resolution, didn't dare – although he already knew.

When he returned that way to take care of a few 'housekeeping' matters within the theatre, he was stopped short when he saw the envelope still lying on the table, with no sign of her. His fists had clenched in a rage that she dared to _ignore_ him. Until he realised that it was not the same envelope. Curious, he took it, surprised at its slight bulkiness. It bore her scent, though not so much as the other notes that she had left for him before now. Opening it, he was astonished by the contents. Tipping a few of the twisted crimson shapes out onto his gloved palm, he wondered at them. It was only when the black ribbon dropped onto the floor that realisation dawned. Frozen, he stared dumbly down at it until at length, he mechanically crouched down and lifted it between his hands. Closing his eyes against the fresh onslaught of pain, he was suddenly thankful he was no longer standing, for he surely would have fallen.

She was gone.

In trying to have the last word, he had lost her.

Crumpling along with the envelope now in his fist, he could not stop the few tears that slipped past his clenched eyelids. She was gone. By his hand, she was gone. Calling on countless lifetimes' worth of dealing with pain, he forced all the heartbreak down and away, leaving only the most cast-iron of resolves left. She may be trying to cut him off, but so long as she remained at the Ravelle, she would still be under his wing.

By his hand, she was gone, but by his hand she would return.

It was with no small amount of consternation that he had greeted Antoinette that day. Having left him several notes, she had undoubtedly come to chastise him over his actions at _Il Muto_, no matter that it had all been for the sake of her ungrateful charge. He had thought she'd taken the hint when they'd stopped a day or two ago – once lost to his music, he never could keep track of time – but it seemed that some sort of dialogue was unavoidable.

It was awfully good of her to attempt some civility, but he had no patience for her games, and so refused to humour her when she asked his intentions. No matter what she asked, she would undoubtedly side with her 'daughter' and the interests of the Ravelle, and so he was quick to put an end to the conversation.

_Christine_

She said it. The forbidden name. She had uttered it. Was she trying to add to his torment with that sweet mockery? He faced it head on, acknowledging the truth, though it was the first time he had given it voice: his most fervent supporter in more years than he cared to remember, his most faithful devotee had finally opened her eyes and, just like everyone else, now knew him for the monster he truly was. And since she now offered only rejection after all he had done, he returned the favour, even if the words had as much meaning behind them as if he had been praising Carlotta's singing abilities.

It was only when she reminded him of her warning that she finally succeeded in garnering his full attention. He had not remembered it before then, having thought there was nothing she could do that he would be unable to prevent, having thought there was nothing she would have had to do. Then it struck him: the notes had stopped for a time. Surely . . .

As she advocated her daughter, he once more felt the full weight of his crimes – not against humanity – he cared about as much for _that_ as they did for him – but what he had done to her. He remembered how pale her face had been on the roof, how her features had been as stricken as when he'd taken her from the house after the last performance of _Hannibal_. And he knew without a doubt that Madame Giry's threat was about to prove far less than idle. Though he dreaded hearing it, he still had to ask. Her answer plunged him back into the storm that had overwhelmed his world since _she_ had fled from him. He let the black waves consume him, knowing there was no other solace, no other retribution, and knowing there was no other way to have his decree fulfilled.

She would return.

* * *

As the weeks passed, and the school came to life once more, he resisted the temptation to either haunt the corridors of the Ravelle – his reputation, no doubt, did not require any assistance in spreading – or to check his house and see if its occupant had returned. Keeping himself within his dark domain, he poured everything into the work he had begun for _her_, and for her it would be completed, though its purpose had significantly altered since those halcyon days when he had almost been able to forget what he truly was. 

But no matter how he kept himself shut away from the world, the world inevitably filtered down into his realm and he soon heard whisperings. So they were still adhering to the usual traditions? No doubt in an effort to convince themselves that all was well, that things had returned to normal. And no doubt his 'absence' would aid in that. The thought raised his lips up into something of a smile. Yes, they would believe all was well, that they had their precious 'school' back. They could enjoy their ignorance, but the time for their misguided folly was fast running out. For the time to reclaim his kingdom – and all else that was his – was fast approaching.

He looked down at the completed score again. The culmination of his life's work lay within the crisp white pages, and the black notes epitomised all that he was. Fingering the ruined petals one last time, he strengthened his resolve. The rose had been a symbol of all that he offered her, and this was how she had returned it: devoid of any life or beauty. That was the lesson that lay within the bound covers – along with the repercussions which would soon be learnt.

The cast was assembling, the stage was set, and the score was ready.

It was time for them once again to dance to his tune.

* * *

It was a mistake to come. 

She'd known it as soon as Raoul had even mentioned the idea, but no matter how many arguments she came up with, there was one that overrode them all: she might finally have a chance to see _him_ again. Having spent the last Halloween trying to keep to herself after the little fracas with Carlotta, she had completely missed the legendary celebrations the Ravelle held each year.

The idea of a ball sounded enchanting: an evening of music and dancing that would draw her out of herself. Ever since she had returned, the whole place had felt empty somehow, as though _he_ was no longer there, even in the shadows. She had spent several nights letting her pillow absorb the tears she shed at the thought, until Mother Giry had assured her that this was not the case. Upon great persuasion, and a complete lack of any sign of the resident Ghost, Christine had finally been allowed to return to the house. Were it not for the chilling absence she still felt, it would have been like coming home. But the absence was there, pervading everything, even her dreams which were no longer filled with that music, with his voice. And so she had withdrawn again, to become the shell that she was last year: a child of Music who dwelt in silence.

Raoul had been wonderful, trying to draw her out of the quiet with memories of their childhood together, or when they became upsetting he would tell her of his school, the various activities he got up to and the fencing tournament he'd won over the summer. She heard the gossip when it became apparent how much time the young patron was spending with her, and so she tried to maintain some sort of distance, and yet he was determined. Either he didn't see, or he didn't care what people thought. She hoped it was the latter, because she could at least admire that.

When he'd asked her to accompany him to the Halloween ball, she'd finally understood the reason for his determination. He wasn't simply pursuing an old friendship, no matter how close it had been. Everyone's suspicions had been right. Everyone's. And he was making her face it at last. She had agreed to go with him, strictly on the condition that they go as friends. Though she couldn't find a way to phrase it that wasn't clichéd, she had just about managed to explain that anything else was impossible, since his position could jeopardise her career – which he still couldn't quite grasp, though he had accepted it graciously.

It was only a week before that she had finally found out what kind of ball it was when Meg had asked whether her mask would be a character or a domino. Realising it was a masquerade, she'd turned an interesting shade of white and after calming her down, had told Meg that it would be a surprise. Indeed it would, for even she hadn't known at the time. She had originally planned on an old-fashioned pink and white dress, perhaps symbolising some character from _The Nutcracker_ or _The Sleeping Beauty_. But as soon as she had time to herself, her thoughts were filled with masks and she knew that her original idea simply wouldn't do.

It was a celebration held in his Opera House. It would be a sea of music and masks. It would be _his_ world. And she knew there were none who'd seen it as she had. She'd spent the rest of the week wandering around the town when she had the time. Eventually, in a small boutique hidden away, she saw it. It was a long evening gown in a deep red that hugged her figure, flaring at her hips into a full skirt, which could not be seen fully unless she twirled. That was owing to the black net mesh which almost disguised the colour and was sewn on top of it, heavily decorated in an elaborate bead and sequin pattern. The straps were thin, the v-neck dipped low, but not immodestly, and the design accentuated all her curves. It didn't reach the floor, allowing the sequins on the black stilettos she had found to sparkle and add to the effect. Once she had given her hair a bit more curl, painted her nails a deep red, her lips to match, and added a smoky look to her eyes, she was almost unrecognisable. The withdrawn shell had been replaced by an enchanting seductress. As she put on the black domino mask that she had decorated with red sequins in a similar pattern to her dress, she looked at herself. There was something missing.

Tentatively, she reached for her treasure trove and took out the velvet box. Opening it, she looked once more upon the delicate necklace that her Angel had given her. The yellow rose of friendship had been her offering. He had returned it with one of crimson hue.

Surrounded by the gaudy costumes and whirling dancers, all smiling and revelling – most in an already drunk fashion – she fingered the pendant once more. The rest did not matter. Somehow she knew he would be here. She didn't think there would be any ghost hunts this year, and he could not leave this place alone for so long, not after everything . . . She had offered a yellow rose, he had offered a red. Now it was her turn to again to make an offering.

"So-o?" Raoul offered her the glass of punch she had sent him to fetch, having needed a little space – if such a thing were possible in the crush that filled the ornate foyer of the main theatre.

"So?" she answered innocently, knowing full well what he was after.

"What did you come as? Come on, Christine, we're here now. You said you'd tell me." She smiled at him, wondering again at his choice of a nineteenth century French soldier – he was still too boyish to pull it off. Leaning forward conspiratorially, she whispered into his ear:

"The Rose of Night." His brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Well, I don't get it, but you, Mademoiselle, are simply too beautiful to question, save for this: may I have this dance?" which he punctuated with a flourished bow.

"You are too kind, Sir." She laughed, playing along. Raoul swept her up into the dance. Given that so many of the staff and students had received dance training at some point, the Ravelle balls were not simply dressed up discos. They truly lived up to their titles, often elaborately so. Raoul danced quite well, having attended many such occasions through his life, due to his family's position. Christine danced with the natural grace that came of having Madame Giry as her second mother for as long as she could remember, and practising with Meg – although she'd thankfully grown out of the habit of dancing the man's part quite some time ago.

The dancing went on and on, and owing to the masks, the otherwise-ostracised Christine was never without a partner. Many tried to guess at who she was, but she refused to speak to the majority, enjoying the mystery, and the ease with which she was swept into it all. But it was not long before she was dancing absent-mindedly, the steps coming out of habit, rather than a desire to move to the music. Something didn't feel quite right, or at least, something was different . . .

The dance became one where partners were constantly exchanged, Christine found herself being whirled around, barely registering the grinning masks before she was met with another. Coupled with her general feeling of unease, she soon became anxious and longed to break free of the dance. She was spun around one last time, her skirt whirling and shimmering about her before she slammed into an unyielding pillar. She would have fallen but she was caught by a strong pair of very familiar hands. Instantly sinking into the embrace, she shut her eyes and allowed her partner to guide them away from the main body of the dance and into the shadows.

Realising that they'd stopped, Christine steadied herself and finally dared to look up at her partner. She was grateful for his hold on her, for it was the only thing that kept her on her feet at that moment. Though the mask covered his entire face, she would have known those eyes anywhere, for none other could burn the way his did. She sank against him as she continued to stare, but he did not let her fall. At some point her mouth must have fallen open though, for the hand that held hers, let go and moved to close it, his familiar leather glove brushing lightly against her chin, before ghosting lightly along her jaw. They remained locked like that, though neither could say for how long. They simply stared at each other, transfixed by some strange spell, drinking in the sight of each other as though they had been dying of the thirst.

_Angel_

It was barely a whisper, but they both heard it.

And in the next moment, Christine wished she could take it back. It broke the spell. He pushed her away from him, though not forcefully as his face hardened to be as unreadable as the mask she couldn't quite see. Somehow, she knew the bow he offered her was a mocking one. There was no chance to say anything else, for as soon as he straightened, he wrapped the black cloak around him and disappeared into the shadows – but not before she had spied a flash of . . . red?

She was startled out of her reverie when Raoul found her. After making sure she was alright, he wrapped his arms comfortingly around her – either not quite convinced, or making most of the opportune moment – and they watched the rest of the dance. The music was very good. The Ravelle had hired a small orchestra, which gave the in-house musicians a chance to enjoy the festivities along with the rest of their peers. As was to be expected, those on the dancing courses had the most partners, and those in the wardrobe departments had the most elaborate costumes – except for Carlotta who seemed to have gone all out to flaunt herself, now that she was considered to be re-established as the resident Prima Donna. Most had gone for a theme of black, white or gold. But Christine didn't mind sticking out, knowing who she had dressed for, wishing it was his embrace she was in again. She wondered at his actions: why had he danced with her? Why had he held her so carefully and . . . possessively, only to thrust her away at the first opportunity?

Raoul gave her a little squeeze in an attempt at comfort when he heard her sigh. She hadn't realised it had passed her lips, but she smiled at him in acknowledgement before turning her eyes back to the main floor. There were Firmin and Andre, fawning over Carlotta and Ubaldo. She spied Meg in a dangerously low-cut swan costume that her mother seemed determined to make a little less revealing, even though she was surrounded by admirers – or perhaps because of that. When Madame Giry realised she was being watched, she turned and met Christine's eyes, offering the slight smile that was reserved solely for her daughters, before it faded into a worried frown as she saw who held her second daughter. Christine wondered at this. Did Mother Giry suspect, or know something? She scanned the floor, looking for some sign of her Dark Angel, knowing that she hadn't imagined him, that he was here – and she tried to think of some way of getting out of Raoul's arms.

The sea of swirling faces moved almost as one body, a glittering spectacle that would astound any who beheld it. The merry-go-round was inhuman, and hiding all so that none could ever be found. And yet she searched on, for even amidst the sea of smiles, she knew she could find him. The music swelled, drowning out everything; the atmosphere was electric, weaving everyone into its heady mix.

But even before someone played a false note, causing the music to take a sombre, ominous turn; even before that, she saw.

At the top of the main staircase was the most breathtaking sight she had ever looked upon. The shadows and their mantle were discarded: there, clothed from head to toe in the most vivid scarlet stood her Angel, a skull mask covering most of his face, a sword of a similar design at his side and a bound book in one hand. He stood staring down in mastery at the menagerie of figures that had frozen in horror. There was no ignoring him now; in that one moment, simply by appearing, he had cast aside all doubt: everyone felt his dominance over them.

And in that one moment, simply by appearing, he had cast aside all doubt: Christine knew that she loved him.

* * *

**AN: (Ducks oncoming missiles) OK, I know that's an evil cliffy, but as is always my excuse: I couldn't resist. BTW, I have that dress of Christine's, which is why it's in there - that and it works.**

**Now, I have been torturing my reviewers with hints for quite a while now, and it's finally time to satisfy some curiosity. This story started because I got some ideas in my head for what takes place AFTER the movie (well, this version of it), and so I have a question for you: do you want a sequel to this story, or not? I do have ideas, and I know a sequel would work as a complete story. I do need this question answered soon so I know how to write the ending. It's all down to you guys. I REALLY want to write a sequel, but if you want the story to end sooner rather than later, I will (grudgingly (who said that?)) respect that and try and use the ideas in some other way. But PLEASE let me know ASAP, whether it's in a review or a PM. Thanks again, and I'll try and get the next bit written soon for you. N.**


	72. Chapter 71

**Author's Note: Thanks to steelelf, treblmaker7, KyrieofAccender, jtbwriter, Spectralprincess, Lothiel, Sqweakie the Wonder Mouse (thanks for some very impressive catch-up reading), Melodic Rose, grannydaisytoo, mikabronxgirl, Lady Winifred, Busanda, Timeflies, mildetryth, Earelwen, Lair Lover, Ohpoorerik, saphireangelcutie, Fluorescente, Talitha J, Rose of Night (double thanks), Passed Over, montaquecat, TouchingTrusting and snowflake17 for their latest reviews. And thanks to scorpionorchid. Even though it doesn't show up on the review counter, that PM definitely gets a 'thank you'.**

**Well, at 25 reviews (plus the PM), that is officially the most I've ever got for one chapter. Guess I need to throw out questions like that more often. Kidding! I appreciate each review, no matter how many or few I get. And the results of the question: due to an overwhelming i.e. total majority from those who answered my question, I will be writing a sequel to this story. It is actually quite a relief, because otherwise I'd have had too many issues to clear up in a relatively short space of time. Thank you sooo much to everyone for such incredible support of the story and my writing. It is a wonderful compliment and I will do my utmost not to disappoint. **

**Oh, and speaking of that: sorry about the shortness of this chapter, but based on what happens next, I kind of needed the heftier transition that a chapter change gives, rather than just shoving a line in there. Rest assured, the next chapter will be offering a few interesting bits and pieces. And apologies if anyone objects to me using the ALW dialogue again. I did try and change it a bit, but it just WORKS, so I'm afraid it's not quite me all the way.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 71

There was no doubt she had recognised him. He didn't know what had possessed him to reveal himself to her then.

He did know.

It was the same spell her name wove, her scent, her image. When combined into one glorious whole . . . it seemed he was destined ever to be weak where she was concerned.

His original plan had been to appear before them all and deliver his instructions. But one glimpse of her and he had been overcome. Never, not even at the Christmas concert, not even when she had woken in his arms and smiled; never had he seen her so captivating. She looked like a creature of the night – no, its angel, for she still retained that wonderful innocence, even though she moved as a seductress, effortlessly tempting all who saw her.

Even though she was masked, he fell under the heady enchantment. Or perhaps because of that; knowing what was beneath the domino made the disguise all the more alluring. Seeing her in the arms of so many others though, it built up his fury anew. She was HIS rose. He felt a certain gratification when it appeared as though she didn't enjoy the dance, and in that moment, he had cast all caution and intent to the wind, moving swiftly to her side and taking her away from the crushing extravaganza.

And she had willingly followed.

When she met his eyes, he knew that it was not for the dance that she had come, it was not because of the spell of that 'music' that she had rested against him. It was because she was _his_. Even now, even after . . . still she came to him. The feel of her pressed against him was almost his undoing. All those weeks spent thinking the worst, believing she found him a monster and now she rested against him as easily and willingly as though . . .

_Angel_

Angel.

Ghost.

Angel.

Ghost.

The titles warred within his mind.

She was trembling. Was he wrong? Had she followed solely to escape the deranged gyrations of the dance? Did she still fear him? Of course she did! Still she refused to accept all that he was. Did she think he would be content with simply fulfilling a childish illusion because she couldn't – no – refused to appreciate all that he had done for her? Though every instinct and desire within him rebelled against it, he pushed her away, bowing to her in farewell: farewell to her delusions about him. It was time to reclaim all that was his: and to ensure he kept it.

So it was he allowed the shadows to envelop him one last time.

One last time before they learnt whose opera house this truly was.

* * *

He made his way slowly down the stairs, each step sending a jolt of fear or dread through all assembled. All but one. Every step was a heartbeat for Christine, as she counted each movement that brought him closer to her. She trembled anew at her realisation, at having it dawn upon her so dramatically, and now having to face it so publicly. 

A vision of Red Death; the images of how fitting the costume was flitted across her mind, but they were forced aside as she remembered all that she had told Gustave, all that she now knew. He truly was the Phantom of the Opera, effortlessly commanding all that saw him. Did he not realise how dangerous this could be for him? Of course not. What danger could there be for him in this place?

"Why so silent?"

That voice! She had forgotten how it truly sounded; though she had heard it so much, she had still forgotten how wonderful it was. Just as when he had held her, she drank in that sound as though it were the air she breathed. Though he spoke quietly, his voice still managed to fill the entire room, and none were left untouched by it.

"Ah, my dear managers, did you think that I had left you for good?" The feeling of unease finally returned to Christine. She knew that tone: it was the Ghost speaking, and in a way which meant there would be no crossing him this time.

"I too have been busy, Messieurs. I have written you an opera." why did his eyes rest on her as he said that? "Here I have the finished score: _Don Juan Triumphant_!" So saying, he threw the manuscript to the floor, punctuating the action by drawing his sword.

Now she was worried.

Whatever she felt about him, he was still the man capable of terrorising the Ravelle; he was still the man willing to go so far as murder to protect what was his; and no matter how calm he sounded, how steadily he delivered his address, he was furious – for he valued his music too highly the throw it on the floor merely for effect.

"Just one note or two; I suggest they are obeyed:" he went on, continuing to punctuate his speech with that grotesque blade, "Carlotta should be taught how to act, my stage is for music, not a barnyard for squawking peacocks to strut around. Ubaldo needs to lose some weight; his girth lends him too much to the ridiculous. And you, my dear managers, need to learn that your place is in the office, _not_ the arts."

Having made his point, and silenced those most liable to an outburst, he put the sword away, thankfully hiding the glinting skull once more.

Few heard the difference – being too worried about what the all-too-real Opera Ghost would do next – but as he turned and spoke next, his voice did soften a little.

"And as for our star, Miss Christine Daaë: no doubt she will shine. True, her voice has improved, but there is still much left for her to learn, if she will return to her teacher."

You could have heard a pin drop. There was no one in the room who did not realise what was meant by that. All eyes turned to Christine, some in astonishment, some in accusation, and some – one pair above all – in expectation.

Dazed by what he was saying and what it could mean, Christine barely registered the fact that Raoul had stopped holding her some time ago. Instead, she was focussed on the man before her: Red Death, the Phantom of the Opera. Her Angel. And now he had revealed to all those gathered the claim that he held over her: a claim she could neither deny, nor ignore.

Slowly, she approached him; tentatively, unknowing of how he would respond; wondering if she would be greeted by the Angel or the Phantom. With each step, her heart beat more rapidly, with each movement that brought her nearer, their breaths seemed to be held a little more.

As she climbed the stairs, the world melted away and they were locked in that oldest of enchantments once more. She wasn't even a foot away from him as she stared up into his eyes; hers filled with questions and hope, his filled with a fire that she could not fathom. An eternity passed in that moment. An eternity of shared loneliness and longing finally answered.

Of its own accord, his hand reached up to caress her face, as it had done only moments ago. Her breath hitched as it lowered; though she dared not look away for fear that the spell would be broken.

But when his fingers found the delicate silver chain, it was shattered.

Did she think to mock him with this? Or by flaunting the pendant before him, did she hope to calm him, sparing them all from the machinations he had decreed? Taking her trembling for fear once more, he ripped it from her throat, hissing:

"Your chains are mine. You belong to _me_!"

Her face turned into a mask of horror as he marched back up the stairs, disappearing through a trapdoor in a cloud of smoke before anyone could stop him.

Before it became invisible once more, Christine saw Raoul follow after Red Death; though it only vaguely registered, and so no cry of protest escaped her lips. Though what she would have protested was anyone's guess.

She turned around mechanically and made her way down the stairs. Her Angel had left her again. He had claimed her, and left her. Again. How long was he set on punishing her? Was this what she was to endure for the rest of her time at the Ravelle? What about afterwards? Would there be an afterwards? He had left her, but he had claimed her. And she had no doubt that that would not be changing any time soon.

As she made her way across the hall – uninterrupted though she remained the subject of both watch and whispers – she was stopped by a furious and extremely sarcastic Firmin.

"Congratulations, Miss Daaë. It looks like you've secured us a new opera, and yourself another lead. I hope you're happy with this. After everything we've done for you, everything we've put up with . . . and now we find out you're in league with that . . . that-"

He stopped his spluttering as Christine fixed him with a glacially cold, but empty stare.

"What would you know?" She said quietly before quietly walking out and away, unable to remain any longer under those curious, accusing eyes.


	73. Chapter 72

**Author's Note: Thanks to Timeflies, montaquecat, CarolROI, Lothiel, Melodic Rose, Ohpoorerik, mikabronxgirl, Aisalynn, jtbwriter, KyrieofAccender, Lady Winifred, phantom-jedi1 and Spectralprincess for their latest reviews.**

**Well, by way of apology for such a short chapter last time - even though you did seem to enjoy it - what's this? Two chapters in two days? And a long one! I got tired of waiting, plus I had time on my hands, so you guys get to reap the fruits of that. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

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Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 72

It seemed he was destined ever to be weak where she was concerned.

That boy had chased after him, plunging into his dark world without a thought for the 'mercy' he was placing himself under – no doubt imagining himself to be the white night riding in to slay the beast. The temptation to taint his blade with the pup's crimson life had been almost too great. But it was too easy. He had already taken life for her once. To do so a second time, and so soon, would ruin everything. Besides, he had never stained his blade, never taken life with bloodshed. He was no butcher. Instead, he had contented himself with tormenting the foolish youth, toying with him by casting his voice around, concealing himself within mirrors.

Perhaps it was cowardly, but 'merciful' was preferable. At least he hadn't driven the boy to madness – simple as that would have been. No, it had ended far sooner than he had anticipated. The sight of Antoinette intervening had reminded him of another, and thoughts of her had driven him back into the shadows.

And in the shadows he remained. The shadows of his domain. He hadn't walked the halls of this house – his house – for what felt like an age. But it wasn't just his house. Everywhere he looked, he could see the sign of her; every breath of air he took was filled with her scent. Like a fool, he stood there drinking it in, remembering her at that ridiculous dance – ridiculous but for her presence. And like a fool, he had not thought that she would be there. Oh he had no doubt he would see her again, once rehearsals began for his opera. But to have her so near!

It seemed he was destined ever to be weak where she was concerned.

He clenched his fists at his side, quashing the storm that raged within. He would conquer this. He would take back his theatre, and he would bring his rose home. She was a child of Music, she was Katie's child, and she was his rose.

She was his.

His ears pricked up as he heard footsteps approaching. They were not hers, and there was more than one set. His mouth twisted into a cruel grin. So, they thought they would continue with their other traditions, did they? Even in the absence of that odious swine that passed itself for a man, they still went on with the hunt. Ah, of course! Now that they had finally seen the Phantom who had haunted them so long, the thrill of the chase was begun anew.

So be it.

With a swirl of his cloak, he enveloped himself in the shadows. No matter what they thought or had seen, he was still the Ghost. And in spite of his recent lapse, he still knew how to play his part.

* * *

She moved towards the house almost in a daze. Not that she had ever really left it. She didn't notice the chill of the night air as it cut through her dress. Nor did she pay any attention the few times her ankle went over on those high heels. All she thought of was the ball. Or more accurately: her Angel. He had come out of the shadows, had revealed himself, reclaiming the Ravelle in the process; and had revealed to all and sundry the secret she had tried to keep for his sake. They knew he was her tutor. They knew she knew him. And no doubt she wouldn't be allowed to forget it.

Was this part of his plan? In taking back the Ravelle, did he no longer feel any concern for . . . what? Her? Or had it all been about her voice? The music?

She couldn't believe that.

Whatever the reason for his constantly pushing her away, she knew there was more to his behaviour than that. Or he wouldn't have held her like so carefully, so possessively at the Masquerade. And she certainly didn't imagine the way he had looked at her or touched her, even in front of everyone.

And so she found herself silently slipping in the back door of the house she had come to call home over the last year. It desperately needed a clean, seeing as she had been staying with Mother Giry since _Il Muto_, but Christine didn't care about that now. This was the one place she could think of to look for him. And somehow, she knew he was here.

She made her way through the kitchen, trying to keep her heels quiet on the hard floor. The house was so silent! When last she had been here, it had been saturated with his music . . . with their music. And now, the one thing she dreaded, that she thought would never happen in this place had become reality: the house was silent. Why did his absence feel like her father's death all over again? She knew the answer. And now she had to convince him of it. To remind him of what had been only a few short months ago – a few months that felt like an eternity.

Making her way over to the doors that led to both the dining room and the entrance hall, she caught a glimmer of movement. Hurrying over to the front of the house, she saw a whisp of what looked like a cape disappearing into shadows she couldn't define.

Then she heard them.

No!

Not again. Not this year. Not now.

The Halloween Ghost Hunt. But of course.

Now they had a real ghost to catch.

* * *

Raoul sat in the Giry house, still somewhat shaken by his attempt to catch that . . . that _thing_. Whoever it was. Antoinette watched him closely. The boy tried admirably to mask his feelings, his fear, but he was not so well practiced as Christine. Or her other charge.

"Madame, who is he?"

"Who?" The reasons for his dislike of the boy could not be more obvious to her. But after such reckless behaviour, she too felt some unease about what, if anything she could say to the young patron.

"The Opera Ghost. This Phantom who keeps terrorising the Ravelle. You must know something." He urged.

"No more than anyone else."

"Then why did you know where to find me?"

"I have been ballet mistress of the Ravelle since it opened. There are many secrets a place like that can reveal over time." She answered easily, remaining stoic in her visage.

"So why did no one else come?"

"Why would they? Who else would choose to follow someone who has 'terrorised the Ravelle' so effectively and for so long?"

"But you did. I'm not a fool Madame. Please, for Christine's sake. Who is he?"

That did it. No matter what her promises, her daughters came first. But her promises still stood.

"I met him many years ago, when I was a dancer. He was just a boy, but even then he lived in hiding. He had suffered much pain and rejection by the world, and yet he still showed promise; he was a prodigy. Now he is a genius. A musician, composer, architect, magician. I have kept his secret all these years, and he has guarded my dancers and done the Ravelle a lot of good."

"How can you say that? The threats he has issued-"

"That has only become a matter of concern recently. He is not to be trifled with, true. But few have before. His advice has been good, and those who truly know of him know that much of the Ravelle's good name can be credited to him."

"Whether he is responsible for that good name or not, he is certainly responsible for its ruin. Surely you can see that genius has turned to madness."

Antoinette remained silent. In truth, she didn't know how to answer that. Part of her hoped that the boy was wrong, that it was just his temper acting up again. But part of her knew that he had never gone this far. No one like Christine had ever been involved in it all before, and so part of her couldn't help but wonder if Raoul was not giving voice to supposition, but to reality.

"What hold does he have over Christine? I know he's mentioned her in his notes, but why has he singled her out so completely?"

"I do not know."

"Madame-"

"She is as much of a daughter to me as Meg, Mr. de Chagny. In truth, I do not fully understand either why he singled her out, nor his recent behaviour towards her. I took her away from this place over the summer because of it, and I should not have to tell you that I will continue to protect her by every means I can."

"I meant no disrespect, Madame, but so long as he is at the Ravelle, will you be able to do enough?"

She was spared the pain of having to answer as Meg burst into the room.

"Maman, has- Oh! Mr. de Chagny, I'm sorry. I didn't realise we had company."

"Please, call me Raoul." He answered as Madame Giry rose to once again try restoring some of Meg's decency from that costume.

"Maman, where's Christine? I've got to tell her something." Antoinette's movements finally stopped.

"I thought she was with you. You followed her?"

"Yes, but she said she was going home. I tried to come with her, but she told me to go back to the party. I did try, but- she's not here yet?"

"What's all this?" Raoul joined in, now on his feet. "Where's Christine?"

"Maman?" Meg asked her mother, worried at her anxious face.

"What was it you needed to tell her?" The ballet mistress asked in a whisper.

"They've gone on another Ghost Hunt. I wanted to make sure she had everything here. Maman, what is it?" she called out as Antoinette hurried out into the hall, reaching for her car keys.

"Madame, what's the matter? Where is Christine?" Raoul joined Meg, realising that something was very, very wrong.

"She didn't come here. She said she was going home, you are certain of that?" Antoinette took hold of her daughter's shoulders, the action bidding her to be absolutely sure of her answer.

"Yes." Antoinette's shoulders sank in resignation.

"Come. We must hurry."

"Maman, where is she?"

"She's gone back to the house." Meg's eyes filled with horror. She knew the stories of the Ghost Hunts. After tonight, if Christine were caught up in all that, there was no telling what would happen, what would be done to her.

"What house? Madame- Meg, what house?" Raoul asked, getting no answer from the older Giry. Meg looked at the patron, wondering whether to tell or not, wondering what her mother would think. Seeing only concern in his eyes, she answered.

"The Ghost's house."

* * *

They were everywhere. Swarming all over _his_ house like parasites, showing as much regard for the place as they did for their performances. Their numbers had increased this year, as numbers were wont to amongst vermin. They were spread throughout the house, and his usual tricks did not have quite the same effect. In some cases, his prey would turn tail and run as soon as they heard his voice whispering in their ear. But then they would return with others, and the search would continue. The bolder ones simply drew more to wherever his voice had supposedly been coming from.

No, these were not the usual drunken stagehands. These were determined.

This could be fun.

He moved from the shadows concealing him and slipped into the passageway where he had retrieved . . . _her_ last year. Taking a slightly different path, he found himself behind the door under the stairs. This time, his whispered taunts were scattered as far and wide as he could manage, sending them running all over the floor. It wasn't long before genuine doubt and fear began to seep into their confidence.

Satisfied that mayhem was ensuing, and their endeavours would cease before long, he made his way imperceptibly to the next floor. His music room was thankfully undisturbed. None would have escaped his wrath had the door so much as been tampered with. Concealing himself from their eyes in one of the more out of the way alcoves, he repeated his pattern. Soon they were alternately murmuring and crying, and were it not for the fact it would have given him away, he would have been cackling in delight.

His mood was brought to a halt though, when he saw a very familiar flash of blonde hair.

* * *

Before they had burst through the door, Christine had run – well, as close to running as she could manage in those shoes – and tried to hide. Not that there was much time. She managed to duck into the dining room as the door crashed open. Fleetingly she hoped the lock hadn't been broken, because she doubted the school would be inclined to fix it this year. The footsteps and voices spread out. A few sounded drunk, but most sounded like they were out for blood. Quite frankly, which was the lesser of the two evils was uncertain.

As soon as she heard steps approaching her retreat, she moved back to the kitchen, utilising the time she'd spent here to conceal herself as best as possible. The house seemed to have been designed to contain a myriad of hiding places, and she probably didn't even know the half of it.

Suddenly the atmosphere changed. She could feel it, though she wasn't sure of exactly why. Until she heard an all too familiar voice whispering in her ear. Checking she remained unseen, she looked around, vainly hoping she could find him. Wherever he was concealed, perhaps he could only hear who to speak to rather than see, perhaps . . . the stairs! The door where she kept leaving notes. That had to be it. Someone crashed past her and she shrank back. When next she dared to look out, she saw a flash of black disappearing up the stairs. Knowing it was him, she ventured out of her hiding place, creeping past everyone – not so difficult given the efficiency with which they had been distracted.

She made her way up the stairs, trying to remain inconspicuous, but the size of the house meant that she was fairly well in the open. She'd just made it onto the landing and was about to move to what she knew she would be well hidden when someone's head turned around – their expression making it obvious that it was because of a a certain voice – and she was seen. Vainly she tried to disappear, but her teacher had never gotten around to giving that lesson. As she fled, she heard cat-calls and voices calling after the 'Ghost's girl' – although there were a lot worse that were called out. She ran down the hallway, looking for a room to hide in that they wouldn't think of, but they were all too obvious. Hearing the many footsteps hard at her heels, she raced up the stairs, even knowing that she was effectively cornering herself.

She turned the corner up the stairwell, tripping a little, but was not given chance to right herself properly when a hand grabbed hold of her arm, another clamping itself over her mouth as she was yanked back against a very solid body. The pull backwards continued when suddenly, the lights began to be replaced by darkness. She began to struggle, her old fears resurfacing instantly, when a voice whispered in her ear:

_Christine_

Her movements froze. The hold, though remaining firm, relaxed on her slightly, allowing her to turn. There he was, resplendent in all his dark glory: her Angel, looking down at her, an unreadable expression on his face. The skull mask had been replaced with the familiar white one, and he was no longer guised as Red Death.

The sound of their pursuers became louder, and reaching behind her, with one quick movement he pulled her tight against him and closed the panel, shrouding them in darkness, one of her hands resting on his chest as a reflex. Their closeness was a necessity, the space being too small otherwise. Shutting her eyes, trying to block out everything except the man who held her, she let her other arm reach up slowly and return his hold as she brought her cheek down against him. Feeling him start, she was relieved when he made no movement to discourage her, and even with all the noise outside; all the footsteps and calling, the sounds of their house being torn apart, even amidst all that, in the darkness she was able to relax against her Angel.

* * *

He stood holding her, unable to do otherwise.

What was she thinking, coming here?! Why was she not with Madame Giry? Surely her guardian would not have had it otherwise, especially after their last 'conversation'?

He knew the moment she had been spotted and had pushed aside his plan, instead focussing solely on finding her. It was no surprise that she had struggled against him. And his holding her was a matter of necessity, given that this little hide-away was only designed for one. But when she had returned the embrace . . . she was content to be in his arms? Or could it be she actually feared the darkness more than him? Did she even realise the temptation that she offered, standing in his arms in that seductive gown? The Rose of the Night, wrapped in his embrace. Of course she didn't know. That's what made her so . . . Christine. She couldn't know the torture even the scent of her hair was putting him through, the feel of her soft body against him once more, her hand over his heart . . . his heart in her hand.

No.

Her fingers had proven far too careless.

* * *

At length, the house finally quietened down again. How long they had been stood there, neither knew. And neither cared. In spite of whatever doubts or issues were in their minds, the pleasure of holding each other was too much to worry about anything else. He waited a few moments, just to be sure, before reaching forward and opening up the panel.

Still she stood there.

He looked down to check that she hadn't fallen asleep, but her posture indicated otherwise. Pushing her away, gently this time, she finally looked up at him, releasing her hold. She looked into his eyes until it became clear that he was waiting for something. Eventually, she caught on, and looking away rather bashfully, she turned and moved out of the small space, back onto the stairs. By the time she'd turned around, the panel or door or whatever it was had been moved back into place, and she couldn't even tell it had been there.

Turning away from her scrutiny of the wall, she saw him looking at her, that same unreadable expression on his face. It was only a moment before his features locked into a stony mask and he headed back down the stairs. She managed to follow him down to the first floor landing before her heel went over again. The instant he heard her cry, he whipped around and caught her. He held her there, above the ground for a few moments, there eyes locked, both breathing heavily, before he pulled her up harshly, righting her on her feet again.

Moving away to the other end of the hall, with his back to her, he asked tightly.

"Why? Why did you come here, Christine?"

What answer was there? If she had truly lost him, if he no longer cared for her, was determined to push her away, then there was nothing she could say to persuade him. Experience had proved how implacable he could be.

"Why?" He demanded, facing her this time.

"You said I still had much to learn." She stammered.

"And you wish for a music lesson at this time of night?"

"You tell me. You were the one who bid me return, so I have come." He moved towards her as he answered, circling her like a hawk.

"How very noble, Miss Daae: coming as a Rose of the Night to tempt its master into keeping his schemes at bay; braving the traditional hunt to prevent any further wrath being poured out upon your colleagues. And just how should I reward such self-sacrifice?"

Her head lowered as he all but spat her name. She fought back tears when he mentioned her gown – he was the only one who hadn't needed to ask what she had dressed as. He was the only one who ever understood. Except now.

"Stop it." The whisper, though quiet, was nothing short of a command.

"Stop what, Madame?" He asked, mockingly, stood in front of her now. She raised her head and met his gaze straight on.

"How is it you can write the most heavenly music, run a theatre like no other, command the respect of so many; how can you show all the signs of being a genius and still be such an idiot?" His eyes flashed, the fire blazing, though now it was undoubtedly in anger.

"You dare-"

"I dare." She shot back, matching his glare with her own. "Why can't you realise that I came because you asked. I came to see you." Almost shouting in frustration, it was her turn to move away with her back to him. Whirling around, she met his dumbfounded expression and continued.

"I came to see you because I've spent months thinking you'd rejected me, even though I've lost count of the number of times you promised you wouldn't leave me. I came to see you because I thought maybe you were finally willing to let me back in, or at least tell me what I'd done to you. I thought my Angel had returned to me."

Her voice trailed off in a choked whisper as the tears came upon her, though she still refused to let any spill.

Still, he stood dumbfounded. She had wanted to see him. _She_ had wanted to see _him_! She'd feared his rejection, had wanted to return, was willing to be obedient again . . . She still didn't know. Still she wondered what she'd done, which meant she never knew how she had betrayed him. Could it be she saw no crime in turning to that boy, in openly rejecting him to others? If that was the case, then she would have no qualms about doing it again.

"Your Angel, Madame? Surely you mean the Opera Ghost."

"What do you mean?" She looked up at him in confusion. Did her words mean nothing?

"I see you have forgotten again: that your 'Angel' and the Opera Ghost are one in the same. Or do you think merely attempting to brush last summer aside will make it go away? I am no child's fantasy, in spite of our earlier lessons. I did what was necessary to shape your voice. You of all people should know that I am no angel." Standing inches before her, he concluded. "And if you are unable to grasp that, then ask your colleagues. No doubt they will have far more accurate names for me."

Moving swiftly away, unable to look at her when her eyes were filled with pain and betrayal, he began to head down the stairs, but was brought to a halt.

"My Angel truly is gone." Was there no end to the pain she could inflict on his heart? Her broken voice tore at it anew.

It was all he could do not to turn and fall at her feet, begging her forgiveness. Antoinette was right: he had restored her, and he had broken her. And that in turn broke him like nothing else. Her rejection of him was easier to bear.

No.

She was doing it again. Wrapping him around her little finger, bending him to her will.

No.

He was allowing her to do it again. For she could not manipulate him; she was too innocent for that. It was his own weakness where she was concerned. And that weakness was rising yet again.

He couldn't let that happen.

He had to be strong, had to stick to the plan. She had to learn to accept all of him, or she could not have any of him. It was the only way. This was the only way for there to be hope. She would see, she would know all that he was, all that he could be to her. Then she would understand.

Slowly, he turned to face her, his mouth set in grim determination and reminded her of his earlier decree.

"Your chains are mine. You will sing for me."

Disappearing in a flurry of cape and shadows, Christine sank to the floor, unable to support herself any longer. Her Angel was gone. And in his stead . . . she didn't know. All she could do as the tears finally burst forth was dread whatever was contained within the pages of his opera.

But as Raoul's arms wrapped around her, she knew without a doubt that her dark Angel was right.

In spite of everything that he had done, all that he had said that night, one fact irrevocably held firm.

She belonged to him.

* * *

**AN: Sorry if that was a bit angsty. I was trying to explain a bit about what's going on inside both their heads, whilst giving you some interaction between them, a little bit of (possible) fluff and a chance for some things to get out in the open as was requested - and planned originally. Hope I avoided going overboard on the angst front. I will try and get things moving a bit quicker now that he's back though. Thanks again. N.**


	74. Chapter 73

**Author's Note: Again, apologies for the delay. Slight hiccup i.e. I moved back home from Scotland - permanently. That's a lot of hassle. Still haven't finished sorting everything out. Anyhoo (no, that isn't a typo). I was going to put more in this chapter (in terms of plot), but it just kept going and going and going . . . so I'll have to give you the good bit next time. Sorry! Should be coming soon though.**

**Thanks to Lothiel, Melodic Rose, jtbwriter, Freetrader, KyrieofAccender, Ohpoorerik, Lady Winifred, mildetryth, TalithaJ, Passed Over, Timeflies, phantom-jedi1, Spectralprincess, snowflake17, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Sqweakie the Wonder Mouse, TouchingTrusting and montaquecat for their latest reviews. Extra special thanks to Passed Over for that extra review you sent me. That was so sweet! Thanks again, everyone. Yet again, apologies for the delay, but here's a nice long chapter for you, enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Chapter 73 

The debacle in the managers' office was unbelievable. Were it not for their incredible track record and the positive evidence he had seen first hand, Raoul would have been quite happy to spend the day convincing his parents to withdraw their patronage from the Ravelle – although given recent events, he was fairly certain it wouldn't have even taken what was left of the evening.

When the Girys had gone tearing out of their house in pursuit of Christine, it had only taken a moment for the shock to wear off before he had followed. This 'Ghost' had a house? And Christine was in it?! He had asked the ballet mistress what hold that creature had over his friend, but now he was almost afraid to hear an answer.

Whatever occurred during a 'Ghost Hunt' seemed to have passed by the time they arrived there, though the effects were clear to see. Stepping inside he, like Meg, was horrified at the state of the place. Antoinette was not immune to the shock either, for it had never been this bad. The door had been broken down, it seemed as if nothing was devoid of stain or damage – some pieces even looked as though they were beyond repair. At least the owner was already furious; otherwise this surely would have caused him to rain havoc down on everyone. Though she wouldn't have liked to put money on it, Antoinette was fairly sure that his mood couldn't get any worse.

Raoul joined them as they called out to Christine. The house was larger than he had expected, but it didn't look like the sort he could get lost in, so he'd headed upstairs, as the other two women covered the ground floor. He had found her sat in a huddle in the middle of the first landing, a weeping rose amidst the litter that had marred the otherwise elegant hallway. Wrapping his arms around her, he'd indulged in a few moments of holding her himself before calling down to the Girys. She felt so right in his arms: his Little Lotte had blossomed into a little angel; and that monster had . . . had . . . well, whatever he'd done must have been terrible to have her in this state.

Though she had allowed herself to be held, it wasn't until Mother Giry had called her name that Christine had actually surfaced through her tears and realised that someone else was in the house. She was grateful for one of her second mother's rare embraces, for she desperately needed to be held – and given whose arms she wished to be in, Raoul just wasn't an option, no matter how sweet he was being. Again.

"Christine, Lotte, what were you thinking? Don't you know this is the Ghost's house?" Raoul asked when it seemed her cries had subsided. The three women glared at him as though he were a complete fool.

"I've been living here since the course started. The house belongs to the Ravelle."

"But-"

"Mr. de Chagny, now is neither the time nor the place." Madame Giry interrupted. "Christine, do you need anything from here?" She shook her head. "Good. I think it's time we got you home. It's been a long evening for all of us." When it looked as though she might protest, Antoinette whispered in her ear that the door was broken and the house was no longer safe. Though she couldn't tell what had happened, she knew he'd been here, or Christine would not have thought twice about returning with them.

Christine allowed herself to be wrapped up in Raoul's jacket and led out of the house. She barely looked at the damage that had been done, being too upset as it was to cope with it – somehow knowing that it would be dealt with regardless.

Sat on the comfy couch in the Giry front room as she nursed a cup of hot chocolate, it almost felt like she was in another world. Surrounded by family, wrapped in warmth and comfort; she could almost forget . . . no. She couldn't forget.

He tried everything he could think of, made every comforting overture that came to mind, and yet he couldn't draw her into his confidence. Gone was the Little Lotte of old who had chased him and with whom he had exchanged all the secrets of his childhood soul. Now she barely exchanged a word, and he felt a new surge of anger towards this spectre, who it seemed was not content to merely haunt the Ravelle. He had tried to spend the weekend with Christine, but she had insisted on seeing no one – again – but finally gave in on Sunday afternoon, though he had had to contend with merely sitting in the Giry dining room. It had taken a while, but she had eventually warmed up to him again, picking up where they had left off before the masquerade.

But it had all been for nought.

As soon as he mentioned the Ravelle, she once more shut herself away. Not physically. She remained sat across the table from him, her hands fiddling a little with her mug, but he knew she was no longer with him. He'd tried everything else. That left the direct approach.  
"You're worried about going back." The fiddling stopped. "You're worried about what they'll say." They weren't questions. But when she raised her head and he saw the sheer desolation in her eyes, he realised that she probably knew exactly what they would say, and only dreaded it all the more. He also knew that that wasn't her only concern.

"Don't worry about Firmin and Andre. I'll be there with you." Her eyes lowered.

"That's sweet of you, Raoul."

"But?" She took a breath before answering.

"But there's enough gossip as far as you and I are concerned. It isn't that I don't appreciate everything you're doing. I know how much you're trying to help me, be here for me, but there have to be limits. Especially now." She trailed off quietly.

"Why especially now? Christine, look at me." She obeyed. "I think I know that you avoided me during Hannibal, and now I think I know why." Her face paled slightly, and she tried to look away but he caught her chin and gently kept her eyes fixed on his. "Christine, who is he? What hold does he have over you?" Rising, he moved round to her side of the table and knelt before her, still making sure she was looking at him. "Why did he let you stay in that house? What has he done to you, my Little Lotte?"

For a moment, she looked as though she might break, as though she might answer. In the next, she pushed his hands away and went to stand by the window, staring unseeingly at the landscape that was slowly, bleakly turning to one of winter. Raoul stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, holding her gently – and pretending he didn't feel her flinch.

"Christine, tell me. Let me help you. You said you wanted to be free; you told me so yourself. Let me help you; let me free you from him."

She closed her eyes as he spoke, drowning out the force his voice added to one side of the battle that was being waged within her mind yet again – if it had ever really stopped.

_Let me free you from him . . ._

Slowly, she turned and with a quiet voice, answered with that same fiery conviction that he knew there was no arguing with.

"You can't. You can't free me"

He had not seen her since. Though she had been asked to attend this meeting, he wasn't sure whether she would be in any state to. Especially not given the circus it was rapidly becoming.

On arriving, it had taken a good few minutes before Firmin and Andre had realised he was even in the room, so intent were they on ranting about the farce this opera was sure to be – or make them, he wasn't quite sure which.

"Madness, this is sheer madness! If we perform this nonsense, we'll be the laughing stock of the business!" Firmin began.

"I've never seen a more ridiculous score in all my life. How in the blazes are the students supposed to perform this drivel?" Andre replied, although Raoul couldn't help but wonder exactly how many musical scores the businessman had read in 'all his life.

"It would be a veritable scandal. Have you seen the libretto?"

"What's wrong with the libretto?" The two managers turned to their young patron; finally realising he was standing in the doorway.

"Mr. de Chagny, so good of you to come in. This wretched business really is unbelievable." Firmin greeted.

"Of course. What's wrong with the libretto?"

"What's wrong with it? It's all trickery and seduction! If we tried to put that on the stage, we'd be disgraced. The students aren't old enough to portray characters like these; it would be indecent. This 'Phantom' is trying to drag the Ravelle down into whatever hole he crawled out of!" Andre answered, greatly relieved to finally get his true opinion out into the open.

"Let me see."

Raoul took the score and read over the synopsis that had been drawn up over the weekend, along with the various notes and copies that had needed to be made if the opera was truly to be performed. Though he was no expert in literature or music, one look at the page in front of him, and he knew that if it were indeed performed, it would make _Carmen_ look like a church picnic! Trickery and seduction indeed, though the emphasis appeared to be heavily on the latter.

"What do we do?" He asked, unwilling to accept that his Little Lotte was to be a part of all this.

"What do we do? What do we do?! We refuse, of course." Firmin stated. "We'll simply go on with our original plans to put on a musical and-"

"And risk what exactly? Or who? From what I've gathered, this . . . man has been terrorising the Ravelle for years and no one has been able to stop him. Now he's finally revealed to everyone who he is, that he's more than just some over-blown theatre superstition, there might finally be an opportunity to end all this."

"What do you mean, exactly?" Andre asked, now thoroughly intrigued.

"I don't know what can be done, yet. But he revealed himself to us, which to me suggests that he's either become very confident, or very careless. Either way, now that we know he's a man, we finally have a chance to deal with him once and for all. For the time being, I suggest we play his game."

"And a clearer solution will present itself." Firmin concluded. The two older gentlemen exchanged glances. This was not what they'd signed up for when they'd agreed to become managers of the world famous Ravelle Institute Theatre. The possibility of actually ridding themselves of this problem – particularly where others had failed – was far too tempting to ignore, and so they offered their agreement with the young patron.

It wasn't a moment too soon, because they were then interrupted by Professor Gardiner together with two of his more vocal students.  
"You don't seriously expect me to believe you're going through with this trash? It's an insult to opera!" Carlotta demanded of the two managers, who instantly knew this was only one of the many problems they had been dreading since that blasted score had been 'delivered' to them.

"Miss Guidacelli-"

"Have you seen the size of my part?" Raoul took the offending papers from the young soprano and glanced over them. He had to turn away to stifle the giggle that surfaced when he saw that she had all but been relegated to the chorus.

"It's an insult!" Ubaldo repeated.

"Miss Guidacelli, this has been a surprise to all of us, and obviously we are all in the early stages of dealing with the situation." He began in an attempt to placate her.

"You really think it was a surprise to everyone?"

All eyes turned to Carlotta at her seething comment. They looked at each other, knowing full well who she was referring to. Though it couldn't be clearer that she was speaking out of jealousy, they couldn't deny the implications.

"Miss Guidacelli, whatever Miss Daaë may or may not have known is not the issue. Your concern right now is that there is an opera to be prepared and you have a part in it." Raoul went on, trying to remember what Christine had said about there needing to be limits to what he did for her.

"A part? Is that what you call it? It's an insult to our art." Ubaldo defended.

"If you can call this art." Carlotta mumbled. No one was given chance to comment on the quality of the opera, however, for Christine finally managed to join them, having spent a little time after class chatting with Meg in a vain effort to restore some semblance of normalcy to her day.

"Ah, Miss Daaë, quite the lady of the hour." Andre greeted.

"I suppose we should congratulate you on securing the largest part." Firmin joined.

"She's the one behind all this! She was so desperate for a lead she did all this." Clearly Carlotta had grown sick of everyone skirting around the issue, and had decided to take matters into her own hands, relishing in the opportunity of putting down her rival. Professor Gardiner, outraged by the petty behaviour, tried to defend his pupil.

"Miss Guidacelli, you are in no position to accuse anyone. There is no proof"

"No proof? What about when he said he was her teacher? I heard it, we all did. She knows him"

"Well, Miss Daaë? You have denied knowing the Opera Ghost before, quite vehemently if I remember. What have you to say now?" Andre asked, his tone suggesting the consequences would be severe if she didn't give the right answer.

"I don't know the Opera Ghost." She answered quietly, though none could mistake the conviction in her voice.

"Well, he seems to know you. Unless he was referring to some other teacher you've failed to mention? After all, he has been so generous as to give you the lead." was Firmin's response.

"She doesn't have the voice for it; she could never earn the role. Oh wait, let me guess: you two haven't been having _music_ lessons." Carlotta ventured with a malicious grin, her tone implying exactly the sort of lessons she thought had been going on.

Christine glared at her embittered rival. Without taking her eyes off her, she removed her copy of the score from her bag; the leading role.

"You're really that desperate for the limelight? Then take it!" She threw the sheaf of papers as hard as she could at Carlotta, the force propelling her into the chair behind her. Ignoring the outcries that followed, Christine marched up to her rival and towering over her, went on in a quiet voice laced with more venom than any would have thought possible in the otherwise docile soprano.

"If you want the lead in his opera so badly, fine. If you want to go against his instructions, then you can be the one to deal with the consequences. No matter what you think of me, I never tried to steal any parts from you. All I've ever done is try to earn whatever credit I might receive – and with a clear conscience. Unlike you, I actually object to using my parents' names to get anywhere, because I believe in working for what I get honestly.

"And believe it or not, I don't want any part in this opera anymore than you want it to be performed. You want the lead, you can have it. I'm sure you won't object to Ubaldo pawing all over you in front of a full house." Turning to the managers, she concluded:

"And as for you: I know what I said, and I stand by it. I don't know the Opera Ghost. The man behind all this is a stranger to me. If I'd known any of this would happen, then don't for one moment think I wouldn't have prevented it from happening if I could. I _don't_ know the man who's doing this."

"Then what about his implying that he is your teacher?" Andre asked weakly, a little too stunned by her behaviour.

"You're refusing the lead in a Ravelle production?" Carlotta questioned, clinging to the part greedily.

"She's mad!" Ubaldo joined.

"Christine, are you sure this is a wise idea?" Raoul asked.

"Raoul, I have just had the worst day in all my time here. I've had to put up with name calling, pranks and blatant hatred because everyone seems to think the same thing, and I can't put up with a year of that. And I can't perform in his opera."

"Why his opera in particular, Miss Daaë?" Firmin asked, intrigued by her insistence on that particular point.

"You've read the notes, gentlemen. You know how particular he is about other people's work. Can you imagine what he'll be like with his own?" It didn't even begin to cover her true feelings on the matter, but it was the first thing she could think of that would pacify them.

"Which is exactly why I shall be supervising this production, Miss Daaë." All eyes whirled round in surprise to find Dr. Poligny in the room.

"But sir, with all due respect, the Ravelle would surely lose its reputation if this drivel were to be played." Firmin stuttered.

"May I remind you, Mr. Firmin, that I am the Dean of the Institute, and the Chairman of the theatre. Whilst you and your colleague run the theatre, you do so at my discretion. Now, given recent events, and the tentative nature of the Ravelle's reputation at present, I have decided that this opera shall go ahead, and we shall be following the Ghost's instructions."

"Dr. Poligny, surely you're not giving in to this-"

"Mr. Andre, I have been Dean here since the Ravelle opened, which means I have been dealing with the Opera Ghost longer than anyone else in this room. I was appalled when you so blatantly disregarded all of his instructions after the advice I gave you when you first arrived. Still, whatever the cause, we have this situation to deal with. And it shall be dealt with professionally, and according to the requests of the composer. Do I make myself clear?"

A unanimous, if rather lacklustre 'yes' was given.

"And as for it being drivel; allow me to remind you that the reason I am Dean is that I have always been a student of music. I have consulted with Paul Reyer, and he shares my opinion of this opera: it is far and away the most brilliant and ambitious work we will have ever done. At present, a lot of it will be beyond the calibre of the students, but if they work well, they should be able to pull it off. As for the content: I believe the quality of the music will make up for any misgivings you or the audience might have. Miss Daaë, if you are finished here, may I have a word with you?" That said, he left; his tone suggesting the Miss Daaë was indeed finished there, and so she followed.

He led her back across the campus to his office – which really was disturbingly familiar to her, given the degree by which the other students knew it, or rather, didn't.

"Thank you for coming all this way, I know the trek can be tiresome, but I thought this room might grant us a little more privacy."

"Sir?" Privacy from whom?

"I don't believe there are any who would consider eavesdropping on this office."

"Thank you, sir." She said in relief.

"Miss Daaë, my first concern in anything that occurs here is the well-being of the students and staff. Any concern for the Ravelle itself has always been secondary. Given all that has occurred recently, I find my concerns directed primarily towards you. I heard what you said about 'not knowing the Ghost', both to the police and just now. I have to say, whilst I believe you are telling the truth, I cannot believe you are telling all of it." Christine lowered her eyes.

"Please understand me, Miss Daaë: I have already told you that I respect the Ghost and have tried to adhere to his wishes in the past, but only because that has never jeopardised anyone in the Ravelle. I do admire the suggestions he has made previously, and in all honesty, I would be honoured to have his opera performed here. But I must know the reservations you have. Do you fear that he will harm you?" Christine's head shot up.

"No!"

"I doubt few others in the Institute would say that with such conviction." Her face paled. "I'm not trying to trap you, Miss Daaë. Now, I cannot promise absolute confidentiality – obviously, I cannot conceal anything that might put other students in danger – but beyond that, anything you say in this room will not go any further. Tell me, Miss Daaë: why are you so opposed to taking the lead in this opera?"

Christine studied the man in front of her. There was no doubt in her mind of how supportive he was being to her, and the fact that he wasn't condemning her Angel spoke volumes. But where to begin? How was such a question to be answered?

"I don't know the man who's doing all this, Dr. Poligny."

"Who do you know?" He asked carefully.

"My teacher. He gave me back my voice. He's taught me and guided me since the start of the course. He knows me so well, and when I'm with him, it's as though I've found a half of me that I didn't even know was missing. But I don't know the man who's doing all this."

Dr. Poligny nodded his head, finally understanding her denials, even in the face of such overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

"You do not know the Ghost, but you know the man behind him." Christine nodded in relief that someone finally understood, and without her needing to betray her mentor further.

"Why do you not want any part in this opera, if it is the work of your teacher?"

"It isn't. It's the work of the Ghost. I've read it, and . . ." and what? When she had read it, it was a wonder the pages hadn't burnt in her hands, there was so much fire contained within the notes. Don Juan was the ultimate seducer in opera, and her Angel, the man who seemed to embody all that music was, he had written a true Don Juan. And she was to be his Aminta.

"Miss Daaë?"

"It's the ultimate seduction, and the ultimate betrayal. He wrote it for me, I know he did. I can't do it. I'm so afraid of what it means he thinks of me, what it will mean to him if I perform it; what it will mean to him if I don't."

The old Dean rose and discreetly offered her a handkerchief, silently allowing her tears to subside a little before he proceeded.

"Miss Daaë, forgive me for distressing you, but you will understand shortly why I am asking these questions. Do you fear him?" She raised her eyes and looked at him emptily.

"I don't know. I fear what he could do, what he will do. I'm not afraid of him harming me – I know he wouldn't do that."

"But you fear him hurting you some other way." Her eyes spoke volumes, and he realised that a lot of damage had already been done.

"Miss Daaë, I'm afraid I received a note this morning." He said, pulling the envelope out of his jacket pocket. If the paper hadn't been unmistakeable, the blood-red skull certainly was. "It was the usual recommendations – well, more than usual given the circumstances – but I'm afraid that once again, you were mentioned rather prominently."

Closing her eyes as though that would shut out the inevitable, Christine asked.

"What does he say?"

"He states that you will be playing Aminta, and should anyone else attempt the role, they will do so in a cursed house."

"I wish I could say I'm surprised, but he wouldn't have given up the score unless everything was the way he wanted it." Poligny wondered at her response, that it was so lacking in condemnation.

"He also says that once it is habitable again, you are to 'return home'. I assume he is referring to the house that-"

"That I've been living in since the start of the course."

"I understand you've been living with Madame Giry since _Il Muto_."

"Yes."

"Why would he object to that?" Christine mulled it over, her eyes widening a little as she realised

"He wants me back under his wing. He wouldn't dare go near Madame Giry's house."

"Miss Daaë, I said earlier that we would be adhering to his demands, but if you object to returning to that house, then you will have my full support." Ignoring the usual code of etiquette when with the Dean, Christine rose and moved over to the window, seemingly unable to think otherwise.

He told her so long ago that he had never invaded her privacy, and she knew that still held and would continue to hold firm; she had no concerns about that. Strange, how she now dreaded the fulfilment of the promise he had made a year ago: that he would never leave her.

_If he says he has forgiven you, then you are forgiven, Christine. He never says anything he doesn't mean. But be careful: he doesn't forgive easily, and he doesn't forget easily._

_He never says anything he doesn't mean . . ._

After all that they had shared, all that he had shown her, given her, offered her; he would never leave her. The truly terrifying part of that was that no matter what he thought of her or she of him, she knew the promise would still stand true. If she didn't go back to the house, there was no telling what he might do in retaliation. If she did, then she knew he would be watching; she would be near him again. Short of the opera, it was her only chance to find her Angel.

Turning back to the Dean, she surrendered once more.

"I'll move back as soon as it is ready."

* * *

**AN: PS, writing so much of that from the fop's point of view had my skin crawling, so if anyone else was annoyed by his presence: you're not alone! Sadly, it was necessary. . . Oh well. Thanks again. N.**


	75. Chapter 74

**Author's Note: I was planning to put more plot in this chapter, but it was over 7000 words and showing no signs of stopping, so I've had to split it. But you're getting two fairly hefty chapters, so it's not a total loss.**

**Thanks to mikabronxgirl, jtbwriter, terbear, KyrieofAccender, Timeflies, mildetryth, Ohpoorerik, Tiggy of the Wind, An Jing, phantom-jedi1, Melodic Rose, TalithaJ, Lothiel, Passed Over, Spectralprincess and Lady Winifred for their latest reviews.**

**And an extra special thank you to anyone who's reading this and has ever sent me a review. Altogether you've given me 700 rays of sunshine/ego boosts/criticisms/advice/rays of sunshine. I know I'm repeating myself, but I can't believe you've given me 700 reviews. I can't believ I've answered 700 reviews! I cannot thank you enough for such tremendous response and support for this story. I only hope I can keep you all interested now when it matters the most! Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 74

_I am no child's fantasy, in spite of our earlier lessons. I did what was necessary to shape your voice. You of all people should know that I am no angel._

As she stood inside the gates of the cemetery, Christine could not think of a time when she had felt more alone. Not only was her father . . . gone, but it would seem that she no longer even had the hope of his promise to cling to.

Though he hadn't been able to fully understand why she had agreed – and in all honesty, neither could she – Dr Poligny had assured her that the house would be ready again by the end of the next day. Thankfully that gave her enough time to convince Mother Giry that she wasn't completely out of her wits – although there were times during that 'discussion' when she had to wonder who exactly she was convincing. Her second mother's disapproval could not have been clearer. Nor could her worry, which Christine was grateful for beyond words; but it did nothing to alleviate her own, given that her guardian had known her Angel longer, and no doubt could understand the depths of his mercurial temper better.

She had moved in the following morning, and was somewhat grateful to have so much space to herself again. Much as she adored Meg and Mother Giry and all they had done, the last few days had taken their toll on her, and she had found herself craving solitude more and more. Classes were unbearable. Whenever she wasn't being looked or pointed at, she could hear the gossips and whispers, which nobody tried to hide. It appeared the jokers had had their fill of the slightly more daring torments – probably owing to the fact word had gotten around that Dr Poligny would be supervising the production, and Carlotta was no longer campaigning for the lead. Not that that stopped her from behaving like a Prima Donna – in the worst sense of the phrase, as usual. At every given opportunity, she would belittle Christine's performance, commenting on the poor calibre of her voice, or the mistakes she was making. Of course it usually stopped for a time when someone mentioned the possibility of the composer being in attendance. Actually, that was when everything stopped except for work, and everyone suddenly started treading on egg shells. They were barely a few days into the production, and already the stress levels were rivalling those of an opening night. And the majority of it seemed to land on Christine's shoulders.

At first, going back to the house had seemed like something of a blessing. It was out of the way enough that no one bothered her – not that they would have dared after all that had happened – and she was able to rest in relative peace. There was always the possibility that he was there somewhere, watching, but she had yet to feel his presence. That in itself had also been a relief in the beginning, after what had happened last time; but soon it gave way to the old depression and – at times – an almost claustrophobic feeling: the house was silent. Even though he must have been working away furiously at the opera, none of it had filtered through, and none of the old music remained: the house was silent.

It was like a tomb.

So this was his punishment for rejecting him, in spite of her efforts to show him otherwise; he had subjected her to the mockery and scorn of her peers, and bid her live in a world of silence and isolation: he had consigned her to his world.

Only it was his world, devoid of him.

She had had enough. _His_ world was not a silent one; hers was not meant to be either, and she could not take it anymore. The purple hyacinths had been sat in the house all day, their fragrance filling the place. If he was watching, he would know; and perhaps he might remember another promise he had made to her.

The week had been gruelling, to say the least. If they were to perform his opera as the next production – in January – then they had a very short space of time to perfect a work that was nigh on impossible in places; not to mention somewhere amidst all of that, they needed to come up with a Christmas concert as well. And no matter what she did or where she went, it always felt like there were eyes watching – though never his, and never in the house.

Raoul had been waiting for her after classes every day. He had been very sweet throughout, and was taking into account what she'd said about there needing to be limits, but he still didn't seem to have quite gotten the message. His presence would have been difficult to miss, and few did, which only added another layer to the gossip. Thankfully he had said that he wouldn't be there today, something about a fencing competition that he couldn't miss. Much as she loved having her old friend back, he had been rather . . . suffocating recently, and it didn't show signs of improving. So, making the most of the opportunity his absence had finally afforded, she donned the white gown, her black coat and took up the flowers. The taxi was sat waiting outside for her – the weather had been too cold lately for her to seriously consider walking. The driver wasn't particularly talkative, which she was grateful for, and merely nodded his head when she asked him to wait.

As she stood inside the gates of the cemetery, the sky beginning to darken as the sun hid below the horizon, she remembered the last time she had come here; and she could not remember a time when she had felt more alone than now. Last time, her Angel had been with her. She had not felt the cold, for he had never been more than a step from her side. Last time he had held her as she grieved, refusing to ever let her be alone in her sorrow again. Last time she had felt loved. Now she felt lost.

Slowly, she moved down the too-familiar path, looking at the stone monuments, cold and unfeeling. The sky was darkening and the trees were already bare: there was no life here, only the cold bleak hand of death leaving its mark on all within its grasp. So long her life had been filled by one man; she had needed no other friend or companion so long as she had her Papa. This place was so wrong for him; he had never been this empty or desolate, even when he had had to be parted from his Katie.

Finally stood before the small monument, Christine went through the familiar motions of tidying the stone, refusing to let them be neglected. Gently, she arranged the hyacinths and the fern, hoping they would understand her offering of love, but also her plea for forgiveness. Even as the snow fell around her, she ignored the delicate flakes, unable to feel the magic of winter's first kiss, so lost was she in the darkness. Still kneeling, knowing she would not last long if she stood, she finally broke the silence that had been held too long with him.

"Hello, Papa."

* * *

Raoul drove to the house, annoyed that the tournament had gone on so long. OK, he'd said that it might, but he still didn't like the idea of Christine going from one of those relentless, gruelling days back to _that_ house. He'd been furious when he'd found out, but Christine, Poligny and anyone else he could think of had been completely immovable on the matter. But still, in spite of her assurances, the very thought of his Little Lotte in that house sickened him, which is why he had been walking her back there every night, phoning at different hours – there wasn't always an answer, so he'd had to vary the time – and just making sure that she was alright. She must be so scared though; she even refused to let him in the house to see that everything was OK. Well, there was all that business about 'it wouldn't be right', but anyone could see that that was just a cover. 

When he reached the house, he was once again struck by how gloomy the place felt. Christine had assured him that it had been much worse when she'd first moved in, and even spoke as though she liked it. To him, in spite of her assurances, it still looked run down, neglected and . . . there was still something disturbing about it. It was probably all this 'Ghost' business, and the idea of that man having his Lotte on what appeared to be a very tight leash. The whole affair was sickening; not only did that madman seem to want to watch her every move, but he wanted her to be tempted and seduced for all the world to see in that _opera_ of his. It was so lurid, he hated to think of her in that dark seducer's clutches for a moment, and yet she had returned to him, and on a virtually 24/7 basis. Did she not see the full reality of the situation? Couldn't she understand all that her decision meant?

He knocked on the door, as frustrated as ever by these strange events. What had they done to his Little Lotte? She had been so spontaneous and full of life when they were children, but he never would have called her foolish. She had changed so much. No. That _thing_ had changed her so much.

He knocked again. Well, he would be there for her and guard her as much as he could; they would use the opera somehow and put an end to this Ghost business once and for all, and then his Little Lotte would be free, then perhaps . . .

He frowned. Still no answer. There was nowhere else she would be. It was much too late for her to still be at the Institute, classes had finished an hour ago and no one was around. She wouldn't be sleeping at this hour, surely? There was nowhere else that she went, unless she was at the Girys, but she would have said something if she'd planned on going there. Unless she hadn't planned it? Reaching into his pocket, he took out his phone and keyed in the number for the Giry house, hoping that he would find her there. He was about to hit the dial button when he heard . . . was that groaning? He put the phone away and cautiously looked around. A bit of movement to the right caught his eye and he made his way over. From amongst the trees and overgrown bushes, a figure raised itself onto its feet, and he saw the outline of a man; though he was too short and rotund to be the figure he remembered from the masquerade, he still approached warily.

"Who's there?" More groaning. The man put his hand to his head, turning around, trying to find who was calling to him.

"'Oo are you?" He slurred.

"Raoul de Chagny, I'm a friend of the person who lives here. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know who lives here, do yah? Well I'm the blinkin' driver they phoned for." As he mumbled something about 'flippin' teenagers', he took his hand from his head and looked at it, grateful not to see anything; though the action did reveal a rather nasty bruise at the front of his balding scalp.

"What driver?"

"Some lass phoned for a taxi. Wanted to go to the cemetery. I comes along, beeps the horn; next thing I know, door opens some guy pulls me out and smacks me on the head. Now what's going on here?" He asked indignantly, marching up to Raoul, seeing as he was the only available source of answers – and his fee.

"What man? Did you see what he looked like?"

"Nah. Had a mask on. Don't know why he'd want to nick me taxi though. Not like it's up to much. I don't know. It's not like I know how their minds work. Oi! Where're you going?" He called, chasing after Raoul as he raced towards his own car.

"You said she wanted to go to the cemetery?"

"Aye."

"Get in. That's where your car is." Raoul commanded, realising what had happened.

Every day he had tried to find out if something had happened, if there had been any sign of that creature in the house or near her, and every day he was met with a blank. But now, it looked like she had walked straight into lion's mouth, and like the innocent little lamb that she was she probably didn't even realise it. What was she thinking, going to a graveyard at this time of evening? Of course. Whenever she was upset, she always turned to her parents. A few times over their summers together, he had found her standing by the sea, talking or singing to no one. And then she'd lightly thump him and tell him not to interrupt, because she needed to talk to her Mama. It looked like even now, she still clung to her parents, and not solely for the sake of tradition as he had thought at _Hannibal_.

And as he chased after her, somehow he knew that that fiend would take advantage of her tender heart.

He just hoped he wasn't too late.

* * *

"Oh, Papa, I wish you could be here. Now, more than ever." Her words came out in a whisper, though in the stillness they echoed like thunder even though spoken with the softness of rain. Every now and again a lone tear would escape her – only because she did not have the strength for more. 

"Remember how excited we were when the letter came, saying I'd got a place at the Ravelle? We were so happy. You said it was the start of my dreams. I still wake up sometimes, and think you'll be at the table waiting for me. Sometimes I hear a violin and I think you'll be there if I just turn around.

"I can't go on dreaming, Papa. I've failed you so much. My Angel came like you promised, and I hurt him. He's turned away from me because I hurt him, and I can't dream anymore. The music's gone. I've spent so long crying, so many years clinging to the past and I can't do it anymore.

"Papa, please forgive me. I've failed you, and I've failed my Angel. The music's gone. I think I know now what it was like for you when Mama died. Please, Papa, teach me how to live as you did in that darkness, or at least give me the strength to try. The old dreams have gone. I've failed you all. Help me say goodbye. Help me say goodbye. . ." her voice trailed off into a silent plea as the few stray tears traced glistening paths down her cheeks. The only sound in that still grey world was that of her slightly ragged breathing.

Until the silence was shattered.

* * *

He had thought having her back under his roof, back under his wing would make it easier. Then, he had initially thought he could wait until _Don Juan_ was brought to life on the stage, but seeing her, holding her, touching her, hearing her glorious voice meant for him and him alone . . . it had been too much. Never in his lifetime had he ever wanted anything so much as he wanted, no, needed her. And never in his lifetime had he been so weak. 

With her back under his roof, back within his reach, he had thought the weakness would fade, having been satisfied. But instead he found himself watching her every move. He still refused to enter her room – he was not a complete animal, despite what he had been told – but though he never allowed her to feel his presence, he could not deny himself of hers. She couldn't know he was there, for he knew her eyes would either be filled with fear or light up in expectation. The first he dreaded, the latter . . . he knew he would not be able to deny.

And that he could not allow.

The wheels had been set in motion. His opera would be performed. She would not play Aminta; she would embody her, she would _be_ Aminta, he knew it. The part had not been written merely with her in mind, it was her voice that had spoken, that had sung, it was her character that had poured forth into the composition. Her looks, her embraces, her sweet caresses; those treasured memories were what had flooded his mind and poured onto the pages. As had her rejection, her betrayal. Until he had taken it back. That was when the black notes of Don Juan had filled the white sheets, taking back what she had stolen, reclaiming what was his and reclaiming it completely.

The wheels had been set in motion. No matter how tempting she might be . . . how tempting she was, he would adhere to the plan: then he would take back _all_ that was his; then she would return to him, and she would never leave. He could not let her so long as she possessed him so completely, and he knew that would never change.

He had been surprised when the scent of the flowers had first reached him. It had never been a habit of hers. Surely that _boy_ was not plaguing her still? After all the measures he had taken? His persistence could be called admirable – though not by him – but he was glad at least one of them had realised the full weight of his instructions. The fop had not entered the house since Halloween, and she had kept him at a distance - though not as much of one as he would have liked.

The only flowers he had ever known her to accept had been his roses. The many bouquets she had received after her performances, she had left in her dressing room, or given out to the rest of the cast and crew. It had been bothering him all day until he had heard her calling for a taxi.

She had said she would not go there without him! How many times was she to-

Was this her way of asking him to accompany her? Save for the amount of time she spent with that boy, he knew she was no fool. Whether or not she was making the request, he determined to accompany her regardless. She did not usually go out at night, and even with their prior acquaintance would probably not be aware of the dangers the darkness concealed. Besides, there could be no opera without her, after all.

Convincing himself that that was the only reason, he took care of the driver swiftly and easily. He was grateful that she was naturally rather shy, for if she had attempted to speak with him, he doubted he could have disguised his voice enough for concealment – at least, not from her. He was also grateful for that spell of boredom in his earlier years when he had taught himself to drive – though he doubted anyone would have approved of the way he had gone about it.

At least she had the sense to ask the 'driver' to wait.

When she started moving down the path that led to the little stone, he was struck by the previous occasions he had followed her here: how innocent it all was; how perfect she had been, even amidst a sorrow that had all but broken her.

He couldn't take it.

Reaching for his violin, he knew he had to seize this opportunity. Here, where so much had transpired between them; he knew it was the perfect place to reach her once more, to bring her back to him and him alone.

He made his way around the stones, keeping to the shadows as always. There! What was she doing sitting in the snow? She could catch her death of a cold. Had she no regard for her health, her voice? He carried on, moving so he could watch her, whilst remaining hidden. She was speaking so quietly, all he could hear was the grief with which her voice was racked. Inching closer, he tried to catch her words.

_No!_

She couldn't give up, not now, not when they were so close! How could she abandon Music? Everything she'd ever said or done in response to it had convinced him she could turn her back on Music as easily as he: never. Or was she giving up on him?

_I think I know now what it was like for you when Mama died. Please, Papa, teach me how to live as you did in that darkness, or at least give me the strength to try._

So that was it. For all that he had tried to keep her under his wing; in denying her his presence, he had starved her of what she needed most and given her solitude. She now knew something of his life: of what it was to yearn and always be denied; of what it was to be rejected by all. Hearing her pleas for forgiveness, for strength, he knew he truly had broken her. And there was only one way he knew to mend. He could not let her say goodbye; she thrived too much on that which she was consigning to the grave and so, silently, he took out his precious violin and gently drew the bow across the strings.

The notes poured out in sweet perfection, an echo of that glorious music he knew they had both heard in those few moments when they had first stood face to face. The music flowed from his fingers, drawing them both back into that heavenly time when she was truly his, and he was truly her Angel.

Within the first bar, she had frozen; within the first measure, her eyes were raised, searching for him in the wintry depths. Confusion and doubt were clear upon her face, and so he called upon his greatest weapon and his greatest aid: he sang.

"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless; yearning for my guidance,"

At the sound of the violin, she couldn't help but wonder if it was her father, if she was finally going mad. But no madness could have made her mistake that voice. Still, she couldn't help wondering if it was her Angel or the Phantom who was haunting her now. The words slipped past her lips before she realised, and were instantly answered.

"Have you forgotten your Angel . . .?" Had he finally returned to her? She couldn't resist the possibility, and called out.

"Angel!"

"Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my far-reaching gaze." He saw her looking away warily, uncertain, and yet he could see the old fire in her eyes, rekindled once more. "And though your mind beats against me; you resist, yet your soul obeys!" His voice rose in confidence and hope as she stood, looking to him though he still remained beyond her sight.

Just as the last time, though the music had ceased being made, it still filled the air, as though their accompaniment came from heaven itself. Though he no longer sang, his voice was that which she could never resist.

"Come, my rose, do not shun me; let me show you the true beauty of Music."

Finally! He was there, calling for her. Her promised Angel had returned; she hadn't failed. Once more, his voice wove that dark spell around her; once more she gave in to the sweet intoxication his music alone afforded. No. Not just his. It was _theirs_. It filled the air as Music returned to her. Though she couldn't see him, still she moved nearer, knowing he was there as he again bid her come, and as she felt his presence mere feet away from her, she finally felt whole again.

Until the moment was shattered.

* * *

**AN: PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!! I know that was probably one of my more evil cliffys, but I was feeling nice and I was not originally planning on ending it there. I WILL be posting the next chapter today or tomorrow, so again I must stress/beg PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!**

**Oh, for anyone who's interested (and I know you're out there): purple hyacinths mean 'I am sorry; Please forgive me' and fern (which you've already had, but in case you've forgotten) represents a secret bond of love. It's secret because most folk don't know about her parents or how much she still loves them.**

**Next chapter coming soon. Promise. Thanks again. N.**


	76. Chapter 75

**Author's Note: No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't avoid it. I'm afraid you're going to have to have my longest ever chapter. I was tempted to post part of this on the end of the last chapter and have you go back and read that, but I just can't be bothered faffing around - and that cliffy is too delicious to forgo. I probably could have easily split this into a few chapters, but as with _Hannibal _and _Il Muto,_ I'm fed up of waiting.And before anyone else threatens to Punjab me, I'll cut straight to the thank yous.**

**Thanks to Spectralprincess, phantom-jedi1, Timeflies, KyrieofAccender, Freetrader, steelelf, Lothiel, snowflake17, grannydaisytoo, mikabronxgirl, Melodic Rose, terbear, Lady Winifred, Lady Wen, mildetryth, and Passed Over for their latest reviews. Hope this was worth the cliffy - it does grant a few requests. Thanks again, everyone, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 75

As soon as the engine stopped, Raoul had gotten out – after making sure the driver got his taxi back – and moved towards the gates, uncertain of exactly how he would find her, if indeed she was still there. He was barely three feet inside the graveyard, when he had to stop. The most beautiful music he had ever heard was coming from somewhere within. He snapped out of it as soon as he heard that voice joining it. The beauty and power of the voice was not entirely lost on him, as he finally understood a little of why Christine kept succumbing to it. Turning back, he reached into his car and drew out one of his fencing blades. At least it was something. He caught the sound of Christine's voice on the wind. It steeled his resolve and he removed the tip from the blade, transforming it into a weapon. Running through the snow, he finally found her. She was moving towards something . . . someone, and as he heard that voice calling to her over and over, he knew she'd been bewitched again. Was the monster really stooping so low as to use the memory of her father against her?

"Christine! Christine, listen to me! Whatever you may believe, this man . . . this thing . . . is not your father!"

She snapped out of it when he reached her. As she turned to face him, he saw the confusion written clearly across her features. His poor Lotte! He tried to bring her away whilst she was still in that moment free from whatever spell it was.

He was stopped as he finally met the Ghost.

* * *

Christine was brought of her sweet reverie, dragged away from their music as she heard Raoul's voice calling to her. It couldn't have been her imagination, for it would never betray her or her Angel like that. But if he was here . . . her Angel would be furious. No! Not now, not when they were so close to finally reconciling. Though it pained her, she turned from her Angel's voice to see Raoul running towards her with . . . a sword? Did he really think she couldn't tell the difference between her Angel and her father? What was he playing at? He reached her side and it was all she could do not to step away. 

Perhaps it would have been better if she had.

In the next moment, her dark Angel swooped in, lunging at her friend with that same startling sword from the Masquerade. She watched in a fascinated horror as the two engaged in their vicious dance. Though her Angel towered above Raoul and was clearly the stronger of the two, her friend was agile enough that they were evenly matched. The skull on her Angel's sword glinted manically, the cold steel evidently stronger than the other flimsy blade, but Raoul's skills were fresher and more refined, making his clean efficient strokes just as terrifying to her.

At first, her masked mentor had the advantage, lunging powerfully at Raoul, catching him off guard and making him so clumsy that it was all he could do to retreat. But retreat he did, putting enough space between them that soon he was matching blow for blow. The two fought their way around the little graveyard, dancing amongst the monuments furiously. Like a phantom, the elder used his cape several times to confuse his young opponent, affording him the opportunity of slicing his arm.

When the first sign of blood stained Raoul's shirt, Christine snapped completely out of her Angel-induced daze. Raoul wanted to free her, and it seemed he would go to great lengths too accomplish that. As for her Angel: somehow she knew the wild look in his eyes was the same as when he had looked on Buquet before releasing the rope.

They were going to kill each other.

At least, neither would be satisfied until life's blood had been spilt.

Raoul fell against one of the sepulchres as his other arm was cut. With both his arms bleeding, Christine knew she had to act quickly. But the injury only made him wilder in his attacks. There was no time for retreats as they matched each parry and thrust: it was a true duel fought in earnest.

Until Raoul's blade slipped and he pierced her Angel's side.

Using the distraction, he twisted his own to bring the skull blade to the ground, kicking it away and knocking the Ghost down. He rolled over and reached for his sword, raising it in time to block what would surely have been a lethal blow. Summoning enough strength, he forced the boy away and rose to his feet, only to be knocked backwards once more. His back collided with stone, its low height knocking the wind out of him momentarily. He saw the boy's blade raised to strike, saw it moving forwards but knew he did not have time to block it.

"No, Raoul!"

Her voice froze them both where they stood. The next instant saw Christine stood between the blade and the Phantom.

"Christine, move out of the way." Raoul quietly ordered.

"Raoul, don't do this." She replied, her voice firm.

"You're not thinking clearly; he's bewitched you. Move out of the way!"

To both of their surprise, Christine found herself being pulled to the side. Her Angel placed her behind him, out of the way of danger, raising the skull to begin anew.

"No!" She whispered. He didn't even glance at her as she raised her arm to his, slowly daring to lower the blade once more. She stood at his left side, her hand on his right arm, his other still around her. Studying his eye that she could see, she found no triumph there, only the fire that told her it was not yet over.

"Raoul, you have to go now."

"Christine, he's a murderer!"

"And you would become one?" She flashed back. She felt her Angel's hold on her tighten; felt his arm try to rise, and so she in turn increased her hold on him.

"He's a monster! Christine, this is your chance to be free-"

"Raoul." She interrupted, her eyes pleading with him to understand. "I'll be alright. Just go." Softly came her final plea. He looked at her despairingly before sending a final glare to his nemesis: a look of fire that promised there would be more. It was returned by the unwavering volcanoes burning behind the steely blue orbs that had yet to leave his face. Looking back at Christine one last time, he saw only regret in her eyes as he finally made his way out of the graveyard. Of course! She was doing this to stop him from being hurt. If only she'd realised . . . and yet, if that monster would not hurt her, if she knew that even in those circumstances, she was somehow safe from him . . . perhaps . . .

He only hoped she would be alright. If that was the case, if she was still here . . .

Finally, he had the answer. (AN: That's probably where I should have left it if I'd realised how long this would be.)

* * *

The two stood in the snow, watching the boy leave. Only when he was beyond the gates did Christine allow herself to breathe. Closing her eyes, she sank against her Angel slightly, trembling as the last few minutes were finally able to sink in. When he felt her leaning against him more, he instinctively increased his hold on her. He turned his head to stare after the boy she had just released; the boy she had just stopped from killing him. As he did so, his chin brushed against her soft curls that were now damp from the snow. When the sensation registered he looked down at her in wonder: wonder that she had let the boy go safely; wonder that she had stayed with him; wonder that she was trembling. 

But most of all, wonder that she had not yet moved from being in his arms.

She opened her eyes and found him looking down at her, his expression as unreadable as it had been in the house at Halloween. With a slight pressure, he bid her stand on her own and released his hold on her. She didn't move. Their eyes still locked, he wiped his blade in the snow, removing the fop's blood from it in disgust, before sheathing it, putting the horrifying skull out of sight. He searched her eyes, looking for what, neither could tell. His mouth fixed in a grim line, refusing to succumb to the confusion of the moment. He knew enough: she had returned; she was his – and she knew it. Turning away to retrieve his violin, he knew that it would only be a matter of time before she would be ready to return with him to the seat of sweet Music's throne.

A cry.

He whipped around to see Christine's head bowed, staring at the red stain on the snow where he had cleaned his blade. Slowly it raised, her gaze following a thin, patchy, barely noticeable path of red that led to him. Her eyes reached his midriff and widened before she rushed to his side, her hands gently brushing his cape aside before he could make a move of protest. As her slender fingers found the gash the boy had made, he hissed and pushed her hands away.

She looked at him then, her eyes silently questioning.

"It is just a scratch." He said before turning away.

"No it isn't." She stopped him. "It needs to be treated."

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." He insisted, moving away a few steps before he was stopped again.

"But you don't have to." His shoulders stiffened and he turned to face her, his visible eyebrow raised. "Please, let me take care of it, my Angel." It was all she could do not to slap that stony visage, if only to have a different expression on it – one that she could understand. Walking past him a little, she turned and held out her hand. He looked at it as though he'd never seen a hand in his life.

"Come on." She said, beckoning her fingers in encouragement. He stood there in indecision. Was this some sort of game? Or worse, a trap? The visit had been planned, that much he knew. Was the boy even now calling the authorities whilst she ensnared him in a final, complete betrayal? He was snapped out of the brief debate.

"Angel, please. You've helped me so much in the past, let me help you now. That's a nasty cut and would be difficult and painful for you to treat yourself." She insisted, before adding coyly, "I won't leave here without you, my Angel, and if you keep me waiting in this snow much longer, it could be bad for my voice."

Giving off a low growl, he marched towards her and with one hasty movement, had his cape wrapped around the two of them. Even though he didn't look at her as they took the back way, both out of there and towards the house, he knew she was smiling. Not a word was exchanged between them until Christine felt something damp against her side. Stopping, she again made to examine the cut, but his hands prevented her. She looked up at his face and saw that it had turned very pale. Taking his hand, she put it about her shoulders.

"Lean on me, Angel." He tried to protest, but she put a finger on his lips and silenced him. "We'll get there quicker, I think, out of the cold." Reluctantly, he once more acquiesced. Though he loathed appearing this weak in front of anyone, it was actually a relief. The boy's carelessness had done more damage than he had first thought. He didn't doubt he could have made it back himself, but the feel of Christine's arm around his waist gifted him with more strength than he would have otherwise had.

He waited behind a tree whilst Christine checked that no one – meaning the fop – was in the house. Returning, she instantly resumed her hold of him and brought him inside. The warmth of the house was a blessed relief instead of the outdoors. Granted he was used to cooler climes, but it was still delightful, nevertheless.

"Where shall I-?" She asked hesitantly as they reached the hall.

"The first floor." That debate had already been settled in his mind as they'd walked in silence. It wasn't a particularly great secret, and it was the safest place he could think of that was nearby. They took the stairs fairly slowly, though he hid each stab of pain – it really was an inconvenient place for a gash – she still tightened her hold, silently encouraging him to lean on her more.

When they got to the first floor, he stopped. Thinking he was tired, Christine put her hand on his chest in concern. Taking the dainty limb, he lowered it, though didn't let go. He looked down into her eyes, grateful beyond words to see trust there, even though her confusion was evident. Still refusing to release her hand, he moved past her and pressed against an invisible panel in the door that had hitherto remained locked in her sight. The lock appeared when the panel moved out of place, and taking the key from his waistcoat pocket, he opened the door.

He allowed Christine to precede him and was struck by the wonder and astonishment written so unabashedly on her features. She made no move to touch anything in the room, yet the appreciation was clear as she beheld the piano he kept in there, along with a few other instruments he toyed with from time to time. She took in her whole surroundings, pausing slightly at the other doorway that she had not realised would be there, before turning back to him. Returning to his side, her fingers brushed against the violin case.

"May I?"

He nodded, relinquishing the precious instrument. Moving to a cabinet on the opposite wall, she placed the violin exactly where it belonged, causing him to smile briefly.

What was he doing?

He had promised himself that no matter what, he would keep his distance, that she would learn the price of rejection, that she would remember obedience. And yet he had done nothing in the last half hour other than follow her silent commands and bend to her will.

"Thank you, Miss Daaë. I do not believe I require any further assistance." So saying, he stepped out of the way of the door, clearly indicating that she was to use it. Her mouth dropped a little in shock, before asking in a tone that said she did certainly not believe him.

"Really?"

"In case you had forgotten, I do value my privacy and would appreciate-"

"No." In the next moment, he was mere inches from her, but she didn't have time to wonder how he moved so quickly.

"You dare defy me?" The whisper held more ice and steel than the graveyard had.

"I dare." She returned; her voice equally unyielding.

"If you think I will tolerate this, then you are far too trusting for your own good, Miss Daaë."

"And you are far too stubborn for yours, Monsieur Phantom." His eyes burned at hearing _that_ name from her lips, in spite of what he had said at Halloween. Satisfied that he wasn't completely made of stone, Christine went on, moving forward slowly as she spoke – and forcing him to unwittingly retreat in kind.

"You are hurt and bleeding. You are having trouble staying upright at the moment – yes I have noticed – and yet you think you don't need assistance. Not to mention that cut is in just the right place so that you would have difficulty treating it properly. Right now I don't care about whatever is going on in your head that's making you behave so idiotically; all I care about is that my Angel is hurt, he needs help and I have learnt enough from my uncle over the years that I can give it to him. Now-" she prodded him gently in the chest as his legs hit the back of the bed, making him fall and sit on it, "you can glare at me all you want, but I already told you: I'm not leaving."

"That was in the cemetery." He said, stunned to make the full thought coherent.

"Well, I've said it again." Was her rejoinder as she unfastened his cape. It wasn't until she'd gotten it out from under him and was folding it away that he realised she'd done it again: he was letting her control him completely.

She sat beside him on the bed and tried to look at the wound properly, now that she actually had to deal with it, but it seemed he had decided to listen to her when she'd said he could 'glare at her all he wanted'.

"Angel-"

"So it's 'Angel' now? Whatever happened to 'Phantom'?" She met his glare evenly.

"You tell me, because I don't know anymore." The challenge was a quiet one, but it was unmistakeable.

Looking into her eyes, seeing the plea and despair that was there – that which he had dispelled only minutes before – he fell under the old spell once more. His hand rose to trace against her jaw before he realised, touching the skin lightly. After a few moments, she gently lowered his hand again and finally looked at the cut, horrified by the amount of blood that had evidently seeped from it. Forcing aside both her concern for her Angel, and an immense anger at Raoul, she got up and started for the door. She stopped when he seized her hand.

"I'm going to get the first aid kit." Turning to look at him, she could see the scepticism. "It's upstairs. If you think I'll call someone then you can stop worrying." Still he didn't release her. "If you want, I can sing so you'll know where I am; it's not like I could call for help if I was doing that." He nodded his head, finally releasing her – and feeling a bit too dizzy to protest further.

Just as she was heading out of the door, she threw over her shoulder:

"Oh, and you're going to need to take your shirt off."

* * *

Christine absent-mindedly hummed '_Ode to Joy_' as she hunted for the first aid kit. It hadn't been easy selecting a piece. Whenever her Angel was near, she always had the urge to do her best; but a piece from one of the productions was out of the question, as was '_Lift the Wings_'. She had briefly toyed with the idea of '_Carrickfergus_', but given the refrain, the content was a bit too loaded and she doubted he'd think much of the last line. 

Finally, she remembered where she'd put the kit. Checking it over, she found another reason to be grateful that Gustave was her godfather: her first aid kit could probably rival a small doctor's surgery – and no doubt she'd need it.

What was she doing? He'd pushed her away, he'd scorned her when she'd told him that she'd missed him, he'd as good as said that the only reason he'd done any of it was for her voice. And no matter how she tried to justify it, he had killed – though knowing why; she couldn't find it in her to apply any of the terms that Raoul had used. But even when she had chosen to remain with him, offered to help him, he was still turning her away.

Her song faltered as the opera came to mind. Don Juan was a seducer, not a lover. He used women. Was that what it was all about, proving to her that he was Don Juan? What then was to be his triumph? Was he trying to conquer her? And what was to come after that? Unless . . .

He was afraid.

How long had he lived away from the world? His underground home could not have been established overnight, nor could his ability to move so invisibly in the shadows. How long had he lived away from the world? Been denied by it? Did he expect rejection so much, so instinctively that he was lashing out in . . . fear?

Her Angel was still there, beneath the surface; that much she knew. The Ghost had never been able to enchant her as he had in the cemetery. That was why he had attacked Raoul so violently! They had been so close, and he had . . .

Was he still ready to kill for her?

Did that mean he still cared? She could still feel the way he'd held her, looked at her at the Masquerade. And even when he was frustrated, angry with her, he'd still remembered to put his cloak around her. Or was that just to protect her voice?

She hurried back down the stairs, knowing that the more she delayed, the more damage would be done. As she hurried through the music room that she hadn't been entirely surprised to find unlike the modest bedroom off it, she tried to remember all that Gustave had taught her about dealing with injuries professionally.

But the moment she saw him, those thoughts flew out of her mind.

* * *

What was he doing? He had resolved to be strong, to resist her, to not let her see him any longer in his weakened state. And yet here he was, unbuttoning his shirt as she'd requested. The red patch on his left side was larger than he'd thought. Damn that boy's clumsiness! And damn his own carelessness in allowing him that one victory. That one victory that could have cost him his life. 

But for her.

She had stood in front of him, had protected him. But she had not defended him. That boy had called him a monster, a murderer, and she had not said a word against it. Was it the heat of the moment, or did she truly believe that of him? Surely not. Surely he had not imagined when she had leaned against him, held him; that she wanted to help him. Surely he had not imagined when she'd said she cared.

Or was it all just a trap? Just because she did not call for help now, didn't mean she wouldn't later. Was she trying to betray him? Or was she acting out of some strange sense of obligation to him for their lessons; or to her parents, still thinking he was the Angel she had been promised?

This was NOT what he had planned. She was supposed to obey him as she had done before. Everything had been so perfect in the beginning: she had done as he had instructed and in return he had done everything for her. The happiness she had felt and shown in those months was not a figment of his imagination, though the longer it was only a memory, the more he doubted that.

But he did not imagine the look on her face as she stood frozen in the doorway.

It was not the horror or disgust that he had feared when he had done as she'd asked. It was the same expression he had seen on her at the Masquerade. As he had surveyed the crowds when he'd first appeared he had triumphed, relished in the fear. But when he saw that look on Christine's face . . . he had never seen it before, could not recognise it . . . but it stirred something within him that made him feel . . . alive, powerful.

And she stared at him that same way now.

* * *

He was beautiful. 

She'd thought him breathtaking when she'd seen him guised as Red Death, but only now did she truly understand the meaning of that word. Her eyes roamed over his perfect form, only returning to reality when she spied the angry red stain on his otherwise flawless skin. Sitting next to him again, she tried to even out her breathing, knowing she'd need steady hands to do this without causing him further pain. Of course, it really didn't help that her only other 'patients' had been her father or the occasional childhood playmate and the worst she'd ever had to treat were slight cuts or scrapes. Granted Gustave had let her practice on him, shown her what to do, what to look for; but that had been a game. This was her Angel.

Thankfully, he shifted slightly to give her better access. Though the cut was shallow, it was long, on his side and in a tender area. As if the small puddle on the floor hadn't already given it away, its location made it apparent that it wasn't going to stop bleeding any time soon. Taking a wipe, she gently began to wash away the blood that was drying on his skin, and to clean out the wound. The first time she touched it, she felt him wince, and murmured a gentle 'sorry'. No reaction. Looking up, she saw him staring straight ahead. Was his face slightly flushed? Did that mean she wasn't the only one finding this . . . uncomfortable? Taking out some antiseptic cream, she put it on her finger and before applying it, warned:

"This is going to sting."

"I'm not a child, Christine." He answered lowly.

"Despite evidence to the contrary." She returned, applying the cream as gently as she could, though she still heard him hiss.

"Are you mocking me?" He asked through clenched teeth, finally looking down at her. Still concentrating on the task at hand, she calmly and quietly returned:

"Of course not. I'm arguing with you."

"You never did before." He sounded rather put out.

"You never gave me reason to before."

"Really." He answered flatly.

"Yes. The few times you were rude to me, I could understand it. Assuming that you did eavesdrop on my interview with the police after _Il Muto_, I can understand why you were angry with me. What I can't understand is why you've so completely refused to let me explain, or apologise, or make amends." Finishing as quietly as she had begun, she put the cream away before gently blowing on the freshly stemmed cut, making sure the flow had subsided enough that she could finish dressing it.

He had been ready to answer her back, to offer his own complaints of her behaviour. But the second he felt her warm breath on his skin, all thoughts of harshness left his head. Were it not for her conversation, he would not have been able to ignore the feel of her soft fingers touching him, almost caressing him; but her breath on his body was something he had not felt even when she had slept in his arms. And it was the most intoxicating sensation! All too soon it ended, and he was brought back to reality as he felt her placing some plaster over the cut.

Taking up the roll of bandage, Christine placed one end of it gently over the plaster, then shifting to her knees, began to slowly, carefully wrap it around his midriff to ensure the dressing would stay put. Of course, this did mean that she effectively spent the next five minutes embracing him, her face inches apart from his own. Somewhere along the way, his hand had come to rest on her waist, obviously to support her, make sure she didn't fall and spoil the job . . .

Somewhere along the way, her hand brushed against one of the scars on his back. When next the bandage was on that side of him, she risked taking a quick look. But he was not fool enough to miss it. He waited several moments before asking.

"Curious?" Briefly, she froze. Collecting herself she continued as she answered.

"Concerned, yes. Unless you don't want me to know." He met her eyes then, confused by her answer. Seeing only sincerity, he let his gaze ask the question, to which hers answered by flickering briefly to his mask. He looked away, strangely moved by her . . . understanding? No. Compassion? Yes, that was it.

"They look old." She commented quietly as she taped the end of the bandage securely in place.

"Yes." Hearing no objection in his voice, though it didn't look like he was going to volunteer any more information, she dared to let her fingers lightly trace the scar she had first found – though there were many to choose from. His shoulders tensed, but he said nothing, made no move to stop her. So she continued. The white marks were all long, rough, criss-crossing all across his back. And . . . the skin on either side of each one was . . . stretched.

"You got them as a child?" She whispered in horrified disbelief.

His head whipped round so fast their noses brushed before he moved away slightly. The horror had returned to her eyes, but he knew it was not because of him. Still, he knew what came next, and he would not have her pity him. Not so long as there was a chance . . .

Pursing his lips so as not to answer, he stood. And clumsily fell back down again. Still kneeling, Christine put her arms around him, supporting him.

"No." He tried to shrug her off, but for once she was quicker than him, and came around to sit in his lap, her hands on his shoulder, forcing him to stay seated. Reflexively, his own came up to hold her slim waist.

"No." She tossed his objection back to him. Again, she silenced his protests by placing her fingers over his mouth. "We have a nice puddle of your blood decorating the quilt and floor; I'm not sure how much of it is currently marking a trail from the graveyard to here, but it's too much for you to be going anywhere right now."

"And I suppose I am to wait here for your lover to return and finish the job?" He bit back. Rolling her eyes, Christine momentarily gave up and rested her forehead against his.

"You. Are. Im_poss_ible!" She groaned. Raising her head, she saw that he was sufficiently surprised into submission again. (She really needed to keep a record of these tactics.) "I don't know where Raoul is, but as far as he or anyone else is concerned, this door is locked and always has been. No one will find you here."

"Without your help."

"Which they won't be getting." Still he glared at her. She put a hand on his unmasked cheek.

"Angel, you've cared for me more times than I can count. Let me care for you now." She was in his arms, she was holding his face. Her eyes and voice were full of pleading sincerity. Still he had to ask.

"Why?" She couldn't give him the truth. Not yet. He wouldn't believe it, and it wasn't time. So she gave him the nearest she could manage.

"Because I want to. Because I care. You're still my Angel." Slowly, he relaxed a little as he nodded his head. She smiled warmly at him in return. Looking around, she spied a chair.

"Come on." Getting off his knee – though both of them would have been happy if she'd remained – she carefully put her arm around him and helped him over to the chair.

"What are-?"

"Unless I missed something, this is the only other bed in the house, and I'm afraid you've made a bit of a mess of it."

"Christine-"

"Angel, you're in no condition to go anywhere. I'll fetch some clean sheets so you can sleep here comfortably. Now, am I to assume that this arrangement means you've stayed here before?"

"Yes." He answered. Was he sulking?

"And can I assume that means you have a change of clothes somewhere?" Grudgingly he gestured to a closet that was – surprise, surprise – hidden in the shadows. Cleaning her hands off with a wipe, she opened it and found another white shirt for him. One look at his face, and she resisted the little voice telling her that he would need help with it, instead merely handing it to him as she gathered up his other one along with the ruined sheets. Perhaps if she got them in time, they wouldn't stain.

With no small amount of difficulty, he shrugged his way into the shirt, though every move he made with his left arm seemed to send fire shooting up his entire side. He _hated_ being this weak in front of anyone! Especially in front of her. How was he supposed to have any influence over her if she could look down on him, pity him? She soon returned with fresh linens and immediately set about making the bed. It was so domestic; all he could do was stare as she carried on, bending over the bed to make sure it was done properly, unaware of his eyes upon her with her back to him.

Of course, she was aware. She'd know the feel of that gaze anywhere. It was so odd to be making his bed for him, almost like a wi- no. Now was not the time to be thinking like that. It was bad enough she'd found treating a gushing side wound almost as sensual as when he'd sung to her in his underground home that first time.

Turning down the covers, she then went to his side without a thought and helped him up again, though he seemed to come somewhat more reluctantly. Gently, she helped him lie down, and began to take his shoes off.

"Will you be alright sleeping like that?" Thankfully he didn't ask what she meant, because she wasn't about to elaborate on his being fully dressed.

"Yes." He answered moodily. Setting one shoe down, she set to work on the other.

"I'll try and clean up the . . . any blood downstairs. I honestly don't know what Raoul's doing, but if he gets it into his head to come round here, it would be easier if there wasn't a trail leading straight to you." She explained with a nervous smile.

"Christine, stop fussing. One cut does not make me helpless." She stood and looked at him.

"I know." How could she be so calm?!

"Then stop treating me like an invalid!" Had he spoken to her in such a voice during one of their earlier lessons, she would have instantly acquiesced in fear. Now, she sat by his side and took his hand in one of hers. Brushing a few stray locks of hair from off his face, she answered.

"I'm not. But everyone needs a bit of mothering once in a while. You said you'd let me care for you. And I plan on holding you to it. For tonight anyway. No doubt you'll be back to your usual stubborn self in the morning." She said in a smile.

"Now you are mocking me."

"No. I'm teasing you. Mockery is meant to hurt. Teasing isn't." For the third time that night, she silenced whatever he was going to say with a hand to his mouth.

"I'll go and start cleaning up. Rest, my Angel."

* * *

The cleaning took her a good hour and a half. Thankfully, owing to some of Meg's parties, she'd helped clean up tough stains before – although this was the first time she'd had to deal with blood, and such a lot of it. It didn't help that she was moving as quietly as possible so he wasn't disturbed by her. Not that it made a difference. When she went back up to check on him, he was still wide awake. 

She stood in the doorway, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Perhaps I am not as used to being here as I once was." Was his only offer of explanation.

She sat next to him and placed her arm around his shoulders, her hand bringing his head to rest underneath hers. Though he flinched and tensed up when she touched the mask to do that, he did eventually relax enough to ask.

"What are you doing?"

"Everyone needs a bit of mothering once in a while. This is what my mother used to do when I couldn't sleep. Just, no criticisms. I know my posture isn't right, but this isn't a lesson." He looked at her in confusion, but she only smiled and brought his head down again so that she was his pillow. Softly, she started humming a wordless melody with Irish strains to it. Her lips opened as it grew stronger; and as it grew, so did its effect over him.

_Katie_

It was all he could do not to whisper her name. He remembered in those early weeks when he had first known her, she would sing this to him whenever he shrank away into the shadows. So sweet was the song, and so alluring her voice that it always ended with him stood in front of her, staring in wonder.

But now, here was Christine . . . her Christine . . . _his_ Christine . . . she was singing the exact same melody to him in comfort, to ease his mind. And because she was his, with his head resting against her soft embrace, the music had as much power as that which he had written for her, the music which had drawn her into his world of night. He could not resist it.

As she finished the last, long, low note, Christine felt him finally relax fully against her. Her hand continued stroking his hair, making sure he really was asleep before she gently shifted out from under him and eased him back against the pillows. Even through her tears, she could see how beautiful he was, how handsome now that his face was finally peaceful. Why did he have to be so difficult? Why couldn't he tell her – no; if he had to tell her, then he wouldn't accept anything she did – why couldn't he let her show him how much she cared, how much she regretted those words, how little they'd meant? Why wouldn't he see all that she was trying to do?

Sadly, she left his side and went to clean herself up and ready for bed. Goodness knows she needed the rest as well.

* * *

She didn't get it. 

An hour of lying there wide awake, and still sleep refused to come. She wasn't restless, nor was she allowing anything to disturb her mind – having done enough thinking already that night – and yet she could not sleep. Even after he had played for her, even after she had sung for him, and even though he was in the same house as her, still it was silent. Except for the . . .

Practically leaping out of bed, she padded down the stairs in her bare feet and ran into the music room. He was having a nightmare. Either that or he had a fever, the way he was tossing about. Softly, she moved to his side, staying just this side of his head in case his arms decided to start flailing about. She touched the visible part of his forehead and he jerked away. Startled, she too moved back a little. At least he wasn't warm. But whatever he was dreaming about, he needed to wake up soon, otherwise he'd reopen his wound. A small part of her couldn't help thinking that she wouldn't mind redressing it, but the rational side said that they both needed the rest more.

"Angel." No response. Just the tossing and . . . what was that he was mumbling? She tried again, louder. Still nothing. Until her name escaped his lips. Why did it feel like all she could do was hurt him? Desperately hoping she wouldn't have to resort to Mother Giry's more drastic techniques, she took hold of his shoulders and tried shaking him.

In a flash, he grabbed hold of her and rolled over so that she was lying facing him.

"Christine." Her name sounded so beautiful coming from him, and yet it rang of a broken plea. One arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her in a grip she knew only he could break, the other held onto the bare skin of her back. One hand had landed on his chest when he'd pulled her down. With her other, she gently stroked his hair, then his face.

"Sh, Angel. It's alright, I'm here." She whispered over and over. He relaxed slightly, though he still held tight. The hand resting on her back moved up to hold her head and bring it to rest in the crook of his neck, his chin on top.

"My Christine." He sighed, contentedly. She knew then that he had been asleep through all of it. Though he had called her his before, he had never called her his Christine. In that moment, she suddenly felt the full weight of his possessiveness towards her – and hoped she knew the underlying cause.

She fell asleep minutes later to the gentle sound of his breathing.

* * *

He awoke to the strangest sensations. 

The last time he had felt like this, he had woken to find . . .

Christine was in his arms!

Had the boy actually managed to wound him more seriously than he'd thought? Had he died and by some miracle been granted passage into Heaven? For surely it could not be sweeter than this. Christine lay with her head resting under his chin; her arm wrapped around his neck and her other hand gently on his chest. Their legs were tangled and he could feel every inch of her soft body pressed against his. The cream satin nightgown made her look so innocent, so pure . . . so tempting. He couldn't resist stroking the hair that lay in his hand.

What could have happened to cause this? She had as good as said that he'd abandoned her; had she not been there, he would have killed her friend, and yet here she was, quietly lying in his arms and . . . impossible! . . . was that a hint of a smile? The hand stroking her hair came down to trace the outline of her face in the softest of caresses. She shifted slightly, leaning into it. His hand froze.

What was he doing? What had he done? What would she think? What was he going to do? How was he supposed to continue with his plans now? His heart stopped beating.

Her eyes fluttered open.

For a few moments, they stared at each other, neither quite able to believe the situation. Until Christine remembered what had happened.

"Hello." He blinked, surprised. "Did you sleep well?" She sounded . . . hesitant. What had happened?

"Yes." Her eyes lowered, her hand absent-mindedly running along his chest a little.

"What were you dreaming about?" He stiffened again, which accidentally made him tighten his hold on her.

"Dreaming?"

"I heard you moving about. When I checked on you, it looked like you were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you, but it . . . didn't quite work as I'd planned." She explained, her eyes flickering between the two of them, illustrating what she was talking about where her words failed her.

Gently but quickly, he disentangled himself from her, getting up as quickly as the cut would allow. Standing before the small window in the room, he took a breath before speaking – clearly with difficulty.

"You're saying I . . . grabbed you. I forced you to . . ."

"You grabbed hold of me and held me there. But you didn't force me to do anything – I didn't exactly try to move." Not that she would have been able to without climbing over him, even if she had been able to get out of his hold. Her words didn't seem to sink in though. She tried again, wanting to know.

"What were you dreaming about?" His hands clenched into fists.

What could he tell her? That he was so desperately afraid of losing her she had once again invaded his dreams. That he had relived every torment, every mocking word or blow he had ever known, and he had seen her face amidst his persecutors. No. That would surely horrify her, and he had done that enough. Or perhaps he could say how at some point during his worst agony – no doubt when she had tried to wake him – he had dreamt of her coming to him, holding him; of everything and everyone else melting away. There had only been the two of them, and it had been ecstasy beyond anything he could imagine – even though he felt himself blushing at the memory, now that she really was here with him. As he thought of it, it came flooding back and he could not stem the self-loathing that flooded through him as he imagined her . . .

"It was not my intention to do that. I am not an animal." The last word sounded like he'd said it through clenched teeth, and she knew she had to tread carefully.

"I've never once thought that of you. Or anything like." Turning his head slightly, he looked at her, though she couldn't read his expression, as it was the masked side.

"Christine, I . . . I'm trying to ask . . . I need you to-"

"Did it help?"

"What?" He faced her fully.

"Did it help? Did it make the nightmare go away?" Slightly slack-jawed, he nodded. Finally rising, she moved to his side and looked him clearly in the eye.

"Then there's nothing to forgive."

All he could do was stare down at her. How was it that this beautiful, incredible angel was standing before him without any trace of horror in her eyes? How was it that she could want to be so close to him, even after what he'd done?

Unless . . .

No matter how much he wanted to believe it, longed to believe, he had known too much of betrayal, of rejection, of the world's cruelty and caprice. And her behaviour had been so out of character, especially given the way he had spoken to her after the Masquerade. He had never known her to dress so . . . alluringly outside of the ball, nor could he quite believe that she would be so considerate, giving how close he had come to murdering her friend.

"Angel?" She saw some sort of battle being fought in his eyes, and somehow she knew that she was going to be on the losing side of it.

He couldn't withstand that pleading look of hers, not when she had weakened his resolves so completely. Instead, he walked past her and to one of the rooms at the front of the house. Looking out of the window, he saw nothing. Could it be . . .?

It wasn't until the police car came into view behind it that he recognised the little silver car as being the fop's. He felt Christine join him and heard her sharp intake of breath as she realised what he was looking at.

"Very well done, Madam. It almost worked." This time when he touched her face, it was a mockery and it was all she could do not to recoil in disgust.

"Angel, I didn't-"

But he didn't even bother giving her the chance to finish as he swept past, back to the music room. Instead he took up the rest of his clothes, swinging on his cape with a very Ghost-like flourish. Christine just stood in the doorway watching, knowing how foolish it would be to stop him. It was sorely tempting to march up to him and smack him on his cut, knowing that would distract him long enough so that she could explain, but given his obviously fragile temper, she wasn't entirely certain she could bank on his reaction.

As he made his way down the stairs, someone knocked on the door. Still he kept going, not wanting to waste time by uncharacteristically freezing like a deer in headlights. Before he could disappear through the door under the stairs, he felt a very familiar hand on his arm – but it wasn't trying to stop him, merely to get his attention.

"Angel?" One last plea.

"I expect to see improvement in your rehearsals, Miss Daaë. You have had enough time to familiarise yourself with my opera." Another knock. "You don't want to keep your little Don Jose waiting, do you?"

"Let me go with you." He finally turned to face her.

"And let you leave a trail for your lover to follow?" She saw the fury in his eyes, heard it in his voice, but still she was startled when he took hold of her and crushed her to him, her back against his chest. His hands were on her shoulders, her stomach – it was just like that first night in his home, but even in the heat of that moment, she didn't remember his breath being so hot on her cheek, his body making hers feel so alive.

"Remember, Christine: I will _never_ leave you."

His voice was so soft, so sensual, so passionate and so _possessive_; Christine fell under his spell once more. So enraptured was she that she didn't even realise he had gone until Raoul called her name through the door. She shivered at the loss of his warmth – in more ways than one.

Finally opening the door, she managed to fake a yawn as she tried to look bleary-eyed at her 'friend' who had managed to spoil things yet again with his good intentions – no matter how sweet; he was suffocating both her and her relationship with her Angel.

"Raoul, what are you doing here?"

* * *

**AN: Am I forgiven? Even if it does end with the _fop_. Be honest, how many of you saw _that_ chapter coming? Thanks again. N.**


	77. Chapter 76

**Author's Note: If anyone's wondering, I did have something specific in mind for the tune that Christine used to sing our favourite Phantom to sleep. It's an instrumental that the Corrs do, called Joy of Life. It's insanely gorgeous and it really worked at the point. Just a little bit of trivia for you, seeing as people ask about things like that.**

**Now I know I said I was going to try and have it finished by Christmas Day, but as usually happens when I have a deadline: I was a complete and utter moron and left it to the last minute, so come Christmas Eve, I only had a bit of this chapter written. As I also said, seeing as I've gone too long without an update, I am now posting even though I haven't finished the story. I've very nearly finished Chapter 78, and I've got it planned so that I'll be ending with Chapter 80 as an epilogue of sorts (at least I think that's how it'll work out). Please, please, please bear with me a little while longer, these are not easy chapters to write, and they're made even harder because I don't want this story to end - even if it does mean I finally get to write the sequel.**

**Thanks to Soignante, KyrieofAccender, Passed Over, phantom-jedi1, terbear, CarolROI, Tiggy of the Wind, Timeflies, Lothiel, snowflake17, Lady Winifred, TalithatJ, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Catteh, Spectralprincess, Sqweakie the Wonder Mouse, StakeMeSpike04, mildetryth, PhantomObssessed (triple thanks, that was some incredible catch up reading you did), Melodic Rose, montaquecat (triple thanks), jtbwriter, saphireangelcutie, qt72011, Mystery Guest and Kinetic Aspargus (8 great big thank yous (hope that grammar's OK, though I'm never sure) and funky screen name btw) for their latest reviews. A tremendous thank you for the wonderful responses I received for the last chapter. I'm so glad you all enjoyed reading it, because I certainly loved writing it.**

**Also, thank you to grannydaisytoo, KyrieofAccender, phantom-jedi1, Lothiel (double thanks), mildetryth, and montaquecat for their encouraging PM's after my little author's note. I'm sorry it wasn't a chapter, and again, I'm really sorry I couldn't make Christmas deadline. Rest assured, I was seriously disappointed, and I did feel guilty quite a few times over the holiday. But the end IS in sight.**

**To all my readers (sorry reviewers, you are getting it again), allow me to wish a somewhat belated Merry Christmas. I hope you like my gift to you in spite of the delay. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 76

She didn't know who she wanted to thump more.

As soon as she had offered her 'greeting', Raoul had smothered her in a bear hug, repeatedly asking her almost hysterically if she was alright. It was going to be a _long_ day – as if the previous one hadn't gone on enough. After assuring him that she was alright – and reminding him that she did actually need to breathe – he let go and looked at her as if to make sure. And then he looked at her again as if he was only just seeing her – and he clearly liked what he saw. Resisting the urge to groan, she tried to excuse herself but he caught hold of her again instead.

"What happened? Where is that . . . that . . .?"

"_He_ isn't here." She wondered if he even noticed the emphasis on that first word. Apparently not.

"What do you mean? Christine, what happened? After I left, I was so worried-"

"He left." She was sorely tempted to close his mouth for him, but decided to take advantage of his temporary speechlessness.

"After you left, we . . . exchanged a few words, he brought me back here and then he left." The jaw closed, a frown of doubt creasing Raoul's features.

"Did you see where he went?" Christine shook her head.

"I can't believe he just 'left'. He didn't threaten you, did he?" Even amidst the concern, why did it almost sound as though he hoped exactly that had happened?

"Raoul yesterday was a really long day. Since you've woken me up, can I at least go and get dressed?" Christine sighed, heading towards the stairs, not particularly bothered about receiving his permission.

"Do you want me to come with you?" She whipped round, her eyes flashing at the suggestion. "I didn't mean it like that. I just wanted to make sure you were safe." _'That _he_ hadn't come back'_ hung in the air between them.

"I'll be fine, Raoul."

Ignoring her usually habitual good hostess skills, she didn't offer him a seat in the living room, or anywhere else for that matter, hoping he'd stay in the hallway. She didn't like the thought of him being in the house, knowing that its 'owner' disapproved so vehemently of him.

As she shut her door behind her, obtaining solitude once more, she felt her cheeks burning with the memory of that man.

He had tried to kill her friend. Her friend had tried to kill her Angel. Her Angel had been the one to protect her, even when faced with that morbid possibility. Her friend had sought to help her, even in defiance of such a strong enemy. Raoul wanted to help her, to free her from something he didn't understand; to free her from something in which she would gladly remain ensnared. Her Angel . . . her Angel was frustrating her beyond all reason.

She didn't know who she wanted to thump more: Raoul for ruining her chances of reconciliation again, for still treating her like a damsel in distress no matter how sweet his intentions; or her Angel for refusing to see what she had made plain so many times, for refusing to hear what she had all but said outright. Why had he refused to let her be with him?

When he had first taken her down to his home, she had been so swept up in the euphoria of being with her Angel; had been so completely enchanted by the spell of his music that she hadn't grasped all that he had said. He had filled all of her senses with his voice, with his soul; had offered her all that he was: he had made love to her with music, and it had not been unwelcome. When she had removed his mask . . .

_You wanted to see the demon, and now you cannot ever be free._

That night, she had been his hope. That action had brought nothing but pain and doubt. And yet, she could not stop herself from returning the love he had once offered. How many times had he said he would never leave her? Yet love had only been mentioned once.

He offered her everything; then crawled away in despair.

He pushed her away, but held her at the Masquerade.

He denied her; then publicly brought her back under his wing.

He rejected her, but could not sleep in peace without her.

And though he blindly consigned her to Raoul, he swore he would never let her go.

He loved her to the point of obsession. But he was afraid of rejection.

Slowly descending the stairs, Christine dwelt on these thoughts, having finally collected them all together. And as she saw Raoul, she dreaded whatever had brought such grim resolution to his face.

* * *

She stood by the window trembling all over. Whether it was in fear or fury, she couldn't say. All she knew was that this was the last place she wanted to be. 

Once she had joined him, Raoul had insisted on taking her for a drive. In spite of his efforts to keep the message subtle, he had made it rather obvious that he didn't want to talk in the house, in case the walls literally did have ears. It was only when the familiar old, grand houses on the other side of town came into view that Christine realised where they were headed.

The DeChagny house – if it could in all honesty be called a 'house' – had always been a source of delight to Christine on the few occasions as a child when she'd been able to visit. Being given over to imagination, probably more than most, she had found no end of games and stories within the stately walls. As she allowed herself to be drawn over the threshold, she couldn't help but feel as though she were letting someone down. It wasn't hard to work out exactly who that someone was.

Raoul led her into a small sitting room, away from the front of the house. They had often snuck in here as children to enjoy the fire and whatever treat they'd managed to pilfer from the kitchen. Those points coupled with the room's out of the way location gave it all a sense of mystery and excitement – in many ways it was as good as their attic adventures. Though her visits here had been few and far between, the room held a lot of memories – a lot of good memories – for Christine and for Raoul. They were memories of happiness, innocence, and a bond of friendship that in their young eyes would last forever.

He really was being a good friend. In bringing her into this room, surrounding her with such warmth and fond memories, he was trying to bring her out of her gloom, to give her support and comfort in the only way he really knew how. Here in this room, free from all other . . . distractions, she truly felt the friendship he offered and remembered how much she had enjoyed the company of the young boy from so many years ago. And that spending time with the young man he had become was equally pleasant. Yet something tugged at her within her mind, pulling her away from the warm hospitality; something that said she did not belong, that it was only a game.

Feeling the tension creeping unwelcome into the air, Raoul broke the silence that had settled.

"Do you remember the time we tried to see the Korrigans dancing?" She looked at him, a slightly dream-like state settling over her, wondering at the fact that he'd remembered.

"I remember you stealing some of your father's best cigars and throwing them into the fire and then sulking because they weren't doing anything as special as he'd made out." She answered quietly, though with a smile tracing its way stealthily across her mouth.

"I did not sulk! I merely . . . objected vocally."

"Right. And that of course explains why you nearly burnt the house down trying to get the fire to dance like the Korrigans. Are you blushing?" There was no need to ask, given that his face was beginning to rival a fire engine for colour, but where would the fun have been in that?

"Well, it was only because you'd spent weeks going on about them. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"As if you didn't know. You heard the stories nearly as much as I did in those summers."

"I still can't believe you got to hear them more than me. The amount of gloating I had to put up with."

"And I still can't work out whether your father was more angry that you set the room on fire or that you burnt half a dozen of his favourite and terribly rare cigars. I think your only saving grace was that you hadn't even thought about smoking them."

"Actually, I think my only saving grace was that you charmed him with the stories and those baby blue eyes of yours."

"What? I didn't try to charm him!" Christine shot back in surprise.

"You never do. That's why he was always so soft when it came to you." Raoul's tone belied that he was still referring solely to his own father. Sitting next to her, he confirmed that suspicion.

"Most of the trouble I got into those summers was because of you, you know."

"It wasn't as if you needed help with that." Christine said lightly, uncertain she wanted to hear where this was going.

"True. But I did it all for you then, and even after all this time, I'm still willing to do everything for you." She looked him in the eye, trying to read what was there.

"Raoul, you're not trying to tell me you're going to burn down the sitting room?"

"No." He said with a smile, humouring her in her nervousness. Goodness knew he was nervous enough about this. "What I'm trying to say is that I care about you, my Little Lotte. I stopped seeing you as a sister a long time ago. I'm saying I want to help you. I don't know how you got into this . . . situation. I told you once that I would save you from the darkness, and I mean to do just that." He leaned closer as he spoke. "Let me free you Lotte, let me show you the light we once shared." Before his lips could touch her, she rose and moved away, her arms around her in some attempt at comfort. Or was it protection? Raoul gave her the space she needed, not wanting to rush her, knowing she had a lot to deal with. But couldn't she see he was trying to make it easier?

"Was it all true?"

"Christine?"

"All the gossip. Everything the ballet corps was saying whenever they saw you around the theatre after _Hannibal_. I mean let's face it; it's not as if the son of a patron has to attend that many rehearsals." He finally realised what she was talking about.

"My father's been trying to introduce me to playing a more 'active role' in the company. It seemed like a good opportunity."

"For what?" Her voice was breaking, but she needed to hear it anyway.

"To become better acquainted with one of my family's interests." He stood behind her, gently placing his hands on her shoulders. "And to become _re_acquainted with one of my family's interests." She turned to face him, stepping out of his hold as she did so, the words of her Angel flooding her mind, almost as though he were whispering them into her ear anew.

"But you didn't even realise it was me until I spelled it out for you."

"It had been so long, and you'd changed so much."

"So had you. I hadn't forgotten. Didn't you think what it might do to my reputation? Did you even realise what people were saying?"

"I did realise. Christine, you have no idea how much I tried to hold back, how long I've waited. I know things are difficult right now, but when this is all over-"

"I can't." He took hold her again, gently though given how upset she was becoming.

"Christine, I understand that he has some kind of hold over you, I know it's making things impossible; but please, when this is all over, when you're free of him, promise me you'll think about what I've said." She froze in realisation.

"What do you mean 'when'?" Softly, he placed a kiss on her cheek, just as he had that fateful night on the roof.

"I told you: I mean to free you from his darkness."

Releasing her, he left the room to meet the guests who had just arrived. A familiar chill swept over Christine. She knew her Angel wasn't here, but the atmosphere suddenly felt the same as his displeasure would: it filled her with dread. Raoul had said those words with such a grim determination that she was somehow left with yet another wish that her Angel had taken her with him. No matter what kind of a mood he was in, that situation had to be better than whatever was causing this sense of foreboding within her. It was like . . . it was like . . . it was the same way she'd felt the last time her Angel had left her before _Il Muto_.

Slowly, she sank into the seat she'd only recently vacated, finally understanding just how much her life had slipped into the hands of others. How much she'd let it happen.

_You didn't mind so much when it was your Angel_

No matter how much the thought was unwelcome – given that she had enough of them swirling around her head as it was – it was nevertheless undeniable. As was the fact she couldn't entirely begrudge Raoul's gestures of friendship. Except that that's not all they were, and he had finally said as much. The unease she felt only heightened as she saw who Raoul's guests were. Firmin, Andre and Dr. Poligny entered the room; the former greeting her with the barest of polite courtesies, the latter with surprise and concern. Raoul walked in behind them, surprisingly with a new air of confidence as he bid them all be seated. It was going to be a _really_ long day.

"Thank you for inviting us here, Mr. de Chagny. Might I ask what is so urgent that it could not wait until Monday?" Dr. Poligny began, clearly irked at having his weekend disrupted only to spend it with his managers and the excitable young patron.

"I understand Mr. Firmin and Mr. Andre have conveyed to you the conversation we had after the Masquerade."

"Yes, they were good enough to fill in the blanks." The Dean replied, his tone suggesting that he would have been happier without.

"You have a plan?" Andre asked, making no attempt to hide his eagerness.

Though she wondered what on earth they were talking about, Christine made no move to ask, the last day's events catching up with her now that they were compounded by her latest set of worries.

"We have all been blind. This 'Opera Ghost' isn't a ghost at all. He's just a man."

"Just a man? I'm not one for believing in all these superstitions, but surely just one man couldn't wreak all the havoc we've been having."

"I don't know how he's done it, Mr. Firmin, but I know he is a man. Ghosts don't bleed." None of the men present asked what he meant by that, not wanting to incriminate themselves by knowing what the boy had done; though their evident – albeit silent – curiosity meant that none of them noticed the interesting shade of white Christine had turned with those words.

"What are you suggesting, Mr. de Chagny?" Dr Poligny asked, shifting slightly so that he could keep an eye on Christine as the conversation progressed, not particularly liking the look of things.

"That we perform his opera, follow all his instructions," he raised a hand, seeing that the two managers were about to start protesting, "but remember, we have the advantage: he has given very specific instructions about the casting. So long as Christine performs, he'll be there."

"Mr. de Chagny, you're not seriously suggesting-"

"I'm sure the police would be very cooperative after all the effort they've put in to finding Joseph Buquet's murderer, Doctor. He's presented us with the perfect opportunity to catch him and I don't think we can afford to turn it down." Firmin and Andre began conferring with each other as Doctor Poligny continued with his protestations.

"You're proposing we attempt to trap the Ghost on the opening night of an incredible new opera, when the reputation of the Ravelle will be at its most precarious and you wish to use one of our students as bait." No one had ever heard the old Dean shout, but his even tone clearly suggested he was very close to doing just that, unnerving Raoul once more.

"Doctor Poligny, surely the reputation of the Ravelle will continue to suffer with this madman imposing his will on the theatre." Firmin began.

"Not to mention he has done so without any right for years." Andre continued.

"Without right? Michael, when I hired you, I informed you of the Ghost's existence and the fact that his recommendations – aside from being beyond even the thought of anyone else in the Ravelle – were the main reason the Institute has the reputation that attracted you and Richard. Whilst I don't agree with his methods, I cannot fault his musical ability. He has earned every right to make his recommendations, and yes I do use that word accurately, for that is what they were until they were ignored. How exactly do you think you can get away with any kind of trap, Mr. de Chagny?" Dr Poligny asked, returning his attention to his host.

"If you're implying his 'omnipresence', I have thought of that. If we conduct any meetings relating to this outside of the Ravelle – no – off campus, then it will be difficult for him to eavesdrop. And I recommend that we don't inform anyone else. The atmosphere, from what I understand, is difficult enough as it is."

_Difficult enough?_ Unable to believe what she was hearing, Christine got up and moved away from the conversation. She stood by the window trembling all over. Whether it was in fear or fury, she couldn't say. All she knew was that this was the last place she wanted to be.

He wanted to user her as _bait_? Had he really been saying only moments ago that he cared about her, suggested a relationship after all this? Was it only last night he had fought for her? Or was he trying to slay the monster and rescue the Lotte in distress?

They were consigning her to that opera, to _his_ opera. They wanted her to go on stage, to be seduced by _his_ music once more, to face the full force of his rejection as the Don Juan he had written betrayed her. They wanted her to go through an ordeal by fire from which she knew she would never recover. She knew all too well how the scars of such heat refused to heal. Only months ago, it would have been the culmination of all her dreams to be honoured with performing his _music_ on stage for all the world to hear. Now, dread didn't begin to describe the alarm that filled her.

Vaguely, her mind registered that someone was calling her. When she felt Raoul's hands on her shoulders, she immediately stiffened and he promptly let go his hold, though she could still feel him stood behind her.

"Christine, I know this is a lot to ask." '_You don't know the half of it_' her mind screamed.

"Miss Daaë, you must know that with your cooperation we can finally end this madness." Firmin added, not that his 'persuasions' were much help.

So many thoughts swirled around in her head. Did she subject herself to her Angel's ultimate seduction, unknowing of what he truly intended, unable to trust in him as she used to? Or did she refuse, placing them all in jeopardy? Or did she agree with this plan and allow her friend to use her as bait to trap her tutor; could she betray the man who had given her back her voice, given her Music? The possibilities were all so twisted and distorted that no matter what choice she made, it would cost her more than she could pay: if she went along with Raoul, she would lose her Angel forever; if she went along with her Angel, she would be surrendered to his darkness forever.

The managers only cared about ridding the Ravelle of the Ghost. Dr Poligny cared about the Ravelle. Raoul said he cared about her, but he wanted to use her. Her Angel . . . her previous thoughts came back to her: he loved her to the point of obsession. But he was afraid of rejection.

Mortally afraid.

She didn't want to choose, but that in itself was a choice. Whatever she did, she would be risking someone she cared about. Mostly, she would be risking her Angel.

"Raoul, I'm scared."

"I know. Christine, please, you know that I care, but everyone's hope rests on you."

That was the last thing she needed to here, for again, he did not know how true that statement was. Closing her eyes, she tried to shut out everything in a probably vain effort to think with some clarity.

_Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán._

Quietly, the words crept into her mind, a fleeting memory, calm and simple amidst the tumult that had overwhelmed her for so long. _That voice!_ There was no mistaking that voice. Silently, she sent a prayer of thanks up to her mother, for there were few who had ever managed to hold such power over her with their music, and she knew that message was not one borne of idle fancy. With that thought came one of the only other who had managed it with those words. She all but drowned in the memory of him holding her. Whatever he felt for her, she knew it was not due to her imagination.

What if she did agree? What if she played along and performed? Perhaps there would be some way . . .

He had indeed presented the perfect opportunity. Clearly this was the only chance he was going to give her. She had to prove herself to him somehow. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was indeed the ultimate seduction, but even amidst the grander scheme of things, Don Juan himself was to fall victim to Aminta. What she had told Raoul was true: she had never tried to charm anyone. Yet he claimed that his father was not the only one to give in to her. How many times had she calmed her Angel with a touch, an embrace? This was her last chance, and so for the first time, she would try.

Silently, she turned and searched Raoul's face. Yes, his concern was evident, but so was his determination. He was trying to save her. Even if she tried to tell him now, he would not believe that he had never had any chance of success. All she could do was try and protect him in return – he was the one who would no doubt need it.

She looked at the managers. To their credit, they did show some signs of concern, though she doubted they were for her. They still believed she was in league with the Ghost, and had been subtly bullying her since the Masquerade, probably in the hope of making her crack, or because she had simply gotten on the wrong side of them.

Doctor Poligny showed concern, and she knew his was genuine. He also showed severe disapproval for this course of action. That he had supported her Angel for so long endeared her to him even more.

Returning her eyes to Raoul, she lowered her head, silently sealing the fates of so many.


	78. Chapter 77

**Author's Note: Now you didn't really think I'd leave it on that note as my Christmas gift did you? Enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 77

Sitting in the chair at her dressing table, Christine placed her arms on its ornate surface and let her head sink down.

For what felt like the zillionth time, she found herself wishing she'd never agreed to this. _Hannibal_ had been difficult because of the pressure of learning two roles. _Il Muto_ had been unbearable because of Carlotta constantly crowing over her, not to mention the disaster of the actual 'performance'. This . . .

_Don Juan Triumphant_ was impossible!

The music was beyond the capacity of half the orchestra, the choreography was exhausting, the sets extravagant, and the costumes . . . she still blushed when she thought of when she'd first tried hers on. The white blouse, low corset and peasant skirt should have been charming, but the neckline was so low she felt as though she was going to fall out of it, there was no way those sleeves were going to stay up – making the problem worse – and the skirt was not only transparent, but slit practically to her waist! And based on the comments she'd been receiving since, she really did feel like a piece of meat on display. On display for him.

Every day began with the notes that had been 'left' after the previous rehearsal, which usually amounted to half an hour of reading time that they simply couldn't afford. At least, not since the rehearsal following that . . . unusual weekend when Christine had last seen her Angel and the announcement had been made that for the first time in the history of the Ravelle, there would be no Christmas concert.

Instead, they had six weeks before _Don Juan Triumphant_ made its debut.

Owing to the difficulty and complexity present in all aspects of the opera, they had yet to reach the end of the first run-through when the announcement was made. Were it not for the fact that she was caught in the thick of it, Christine would have found the whole situation hilarious. As it was, she was one rehearsal away from giving in to a completely different kind of hysterics.

When she'd agreed to the 'plan' it had been with the strict instruction that she not tell anyone about it. Not that there was much to tell: get the police in on opening night, make sure all the exits were sealed – against fire safety regulations – and hope for the best. As they'd laid out the 'details', she could practically feel the full force of their prey's indignation that this was the best they could come up with to challenge him. Of course, it hadn't been long before she'd broken their rule – Mother Giry had taken one look at her when she'd visited, wrapped her in a hug and it had all come pouring out. Christine's French was a bit rusty, but she was fairly certain that her second mother's diatribe against those 'fools' (one of the few translations fit for polite conversation) could have made even a hardened sailor blush. Still, Christine was grateful that at least one person knew who could understand a bit more of what she was going through.

Madame Giry took every opportunity she could to get word to her other charge that a trap was being laid, but given the discretion that had been imposed by the managers and that his notes were not being conveyed solely through her anymore, it was no easy task. Actually, it was as impossible as the opera. When she heard this, Christine promptly tried placing a note underneath the door under the stairs, warning him not to come – a hopeless endeavour given that she was asking him to miss the premiere of his own opera – but the slip of paper was still exactly where she had left it days later. Though his communiqués were coming thick and fast, it appeared that the Ghost had otherwise completely cut himself off from the outside world, burdening Christine anew as his rejection sank in deeper, confusing her all the more and furthering her anticipation as his final words to her returned over and over again.

_Remember, Christine: I will **never** leave you._

It didn't matter where she went or what she did in the Ravelle, she was reminded of that. As at the Masquerade, all eyes would stare at her in curiosity, accusation, expectation, or a mix of the above. Everywhere she went, she heard them whispering. Half of them believed her to be in league with the Ghost – some of whom went so far as to suggest in ways both subtle and blatant that she was sleeping with him – whilst the other half believed her to be a tragic victim to be pitied. Either way, it was difficult not to loathe the majority of the Ravelle. Meg and Madame Giry were as supportive as they could be, as were Professor Gardiner and even Dr Poligny, but given the frantic schedules everyone had been given; more and more, Christine found herself alone, and when she wasn't, she was isolated by the gossip and mockery of everyone else.

Sometimes, she couldn't help but wonder if this was why her Angel had chosen to live underground, hidden from the world. In those moments, she longed for him all the more, to teach him that he wasn't alone. Then she would wonder if perhaps this wasn't what he had intended with his actions: to teach her what he knew; to show her what her rejection had done to him. It was in moments like that when all at the Ravelle realised why she had been given the lead; it was in moments like that when she blew them away; that was when she tried to reach him the only way she could: she sang for her Angel and her voice did indeed reach the heavens. Though he was refusing to communicate with her, to teach her and guide as she would have thought he would, particularly as it was for his own opera; in spite of all that, the lessons he had given her leant her a skill that was not taught at the Ravelle; and though she made mistakes like anyone else, she was clearly the only member of that Institute close to being on that stage who was capable of handling a lead role.

That of course, made life even more difficult.

Carlotta, having been relegated to a role that was barely above the chorus, having been subjected to the back-handed sniggers of all those familiar with the diva's temperament; in spite of the very convincing argument Christine had made after the Masquerade, she was still determined to undermine her 'rival' as much as possible. There was not a member of the company, least of all Christine, who wasn't aware that Carlotta was convinced she didn't have the voice for the lead. As in earlier productions, she found herself spending as much of her time as she could away from the temperamental diva, immersing herself in the music in an effort not to drown. Although, given the nature and source of the music, it probably wasn't the best course of action.

Matters weren't helped any by her male counterpart. Piangi – being the only male performer who came close to being described as 'half-decent' by the Ghost – had of course been given the role of Don Juan. And of course, being as infatuated with Carlotta as he was, he became a key player in her ever-continuing scheme to unnerve Christine – a part he seemed to take a great deal of relish in. Whenever they rehearsed together, he took full advantage of his role of seducer – the attentions of his hands having about the same effect on her as Buquet's had, distracting her to the point where she could barely get a note out. Of course, when she tried to complain, Piangi was only praised for 'getting into character' and her professionalism was censured. No matter what she did, it seemed as though someone – usually everyone – was against her. And she had no Angel to turn to.

She froze.

Did she . . .? Was that just her imagination? Shifting her fingers slightly up her arm to check . . . no . . . she hadn't imagined that coolness in the air. Raising her head slowly, she tried to calm her breathing before looking around. No.

_NO!!_

The startling red skull's menacing grin stared up at her, laughing in a twisted mockery. He had been there. _He had been there!_ And he had left a note, hadn't even bothered to let her know that he was there. Or was that draft deliberate? Had he wanted her to know, wanted her to be reminded that he was beyond her reach? As she reached for the note . . . there! She felt it. He was still there. Watching. Just a few feet away. It might as well have been an entire world.

Frustrated to the point of madness, Christine launched herself at the huge mirror with a wordless cry, pounding against it furiously; hot tears coursing down her cheeks as she finally allowed some vent to all that had been building up within her for months. No matter how much she wanted to, she didn't beat the glass hard enough for any damage to be done, though her breath and tears meant that it was less than its usual pristine state of cleanliness. Eventually, her sobs turned into a single word, a question she uttered over and over again: 'why?' Finally, having run out of energy, she sank down against the glass, her hand resting there in one last silent plea.

How long she sat there was anyone's guess. Eventually, she rose, not bothering to look at her reflection, knowing it probably wasn't something she wanted to see, and retrieved the note, breaking the seal without ceremony, feeling some small satisfaction when that gruesome face was torn out of its grimace. She stared at the words written in the familiar script that she had come to hate recently. Putting the note down on the desk, she placed her hands in front of it, where they had been before and let her head fall again.

_Sing for me_

What exactly did he think she'd been doing all this time: ballet? After all this time and all her efforts, he finally deigned to reply to her with a cold command that she didn't even need to receive. Still, it was better than what he'd said at Halloween. . .

Wait.

It was what he'd said to her that first night . . .

At Halloween, it had been an order from the Ghost. That first night when he'd taken her down there, it had been a command, but it had come from her Angel of Music. True, she had felt compelled to obey, but that had come from the magic of Music, from the complete faith and utter devotion she held for her tutor; it hadn't been the dictation of a Ghost, to be fulfilled by fear. He must know that it was only when she sang for him that she was at her best, so it could have been sent solely for the sake of his music, as a reminder. But then why had he bothered sending it at all, knowing that she would be performing anyway, knowing what happened to her when she was on stage? Was it possible . . .?

That first night, those words had been a prelude to something incredible: to the moment when he had shown her all that he was, when he . . . Was that why he was sending it now? Was that why he had finally broken the silence?

"Last chance, Daaë." Not bothering to raise her head and sick of pretending, Christine asked with a weary voice:

"What do you want, Carlotta?"

"Well I was going to congratulate on making it through the production, but now I'm not so sure. You don't look as though you're up to it." Christine raised her head at the not particularly subtle challenge.

"Carlotta, tell me honestly, why do you want the lead so badly?" Her rival looked at her as though she'd grown a third ear on top of her head.

"Well if you're seriously asking me that, I don't see why you were ever considered-"

"Why do you want _this_ lead so badly? Why do you want to be the subject of the most intense scrutiny the Ghost has ever given to a part? Why do you want to be the one to disobey his orders when he means them more than ever? Why do you want a part you haven't even rehearsed? Or do you just want three acts of Ubaldo feeling you up for everyone to see?"

"What makes you think I haven't rehearsed it? I suppose the Ghost told you that?" Carlotta sneered, not having much of an answer to any of the other questions.

"Show me." Carlotta looked at her, slightly dumbfounded. Christine simply folded her arms and waited. She didn't have to wait long. Carlotta launched into one of Aminta's songs from the second act, a sweet and joyful aria, filled with the hope of love. At least it was meant to be. Carlotta cast aside all restraint of modesty and sang as Carmen. Christine merely sat there, trying to keep a straight face, and hoping that the composer had left. Seeing no reaction from her audience, Carlotta stopped after the first refrain and raised an eyebrow, as though daring her rival to criticise. She just stared back. Once Carlotta was sufficiently unnerved – she had had a great teacher after all – Christine quietly asked:

"How do you sing when no one else is around?"

"What are you talking about?" She tried to sound haughty, but she failed to hide how much the question had caught her off guard.

"When no one else is around, like when you're in the shower or just singing for the sake of it, what does that sound like?"

"Why on earth would you ask a thing like that?"

"Because I want to hear you."

"Why, so you can laugh at me for sounding like an amateur?"

"For the sake of hearing you." Had it not been attached, Carlotta's chin would have quite literally hit the floor. Clearly such a request was unusual to the young redhead. "Shut your eyes, pretend I'm not here – it shouldn't be difficult – and just sing something, anything you like." Carlotta looked at her for a few moments, mistrusting, before finally shutting her eyes and softly singing _In the Bleak Midwinter_. The first verse was a little shaky, but by the second, she had gotten the feel of the music and was singing unlike anything Christine had heard before. For once, she didn't object to sitting through all the verses. When she was finished, Carlotta opened her eyes, and seeing the look of shock on Christine's face, quickly turned hers into one of contempt.

"Nice try, Daaë. But if you think you can make a fool out of me-"

"You'll never be your mother." Carlotta's mouth snapped shut and she turned for the door, affronted, but froze as Christine went on. "The day you realise that is the day you surpass her."

"What are you talking about? My mother is a great singer." Carlotta turned, again daring, yet also pleading Christine to say anything to the contrary.

"She has a good voice, but from what I've heard, you can't tell because she shows off too much. Even if you mirrored her note for note, you'd never be her. But you could be better than her."

"What makes you say that?"

"My mother was a singer. She taught me that lesson when I was four. I doubt I've ever surpassed her, but I've never tried to be her. I've only ever tried to use _my_ voice and be the best that _I_ can be. She pushed me on instead of holding me back because I learnt and I let her."

"Somehow I doubt our mothers are in the same league." Carlotta sneered, uncomfortable with the conversation.

"No. Mine's in Heaven." She had the decency to look slightly ashamed. "Whatever you think of your mother, you know I'm right." Again, Carlotta turned to leave.

"Carlotta, I've never heard you make anything sound so beautiful before. I was honoured to hear it. Thank you." The door opened and Carlotta stepped out. Before she shut it behind her, she said quietly.

"Good luck tonight, Christine."

After a few moments, Christine took her eyes off the now closed door and looked at herself in the mirror. Removing her robe, she re-applied her make-up, both on her face and her body, covering up her red eyes and the scars. Tucking the note in the table drawer, she looked at herself in the full mirror. Stood alone in the silence, she stared at the reflection, but only saw Christine dressed like a gypsy. Turning back to the dresser she opened the drawer again and took out one of her treasures: one of her Angel's roses that she'd dried. Using the crimson flower to pin back a section of her hair, she looked again. And saw Aminta.

Surprised as she had been by the sentiment given where it was coming from, she was truly grateful for Carlotta's final words of good luck.

She was going to need it.

* * *

The opera was astounding. No one sat in the audience at the Ravelle had ever heard anything like it. From the very first note, the music affected all who had gathered to witness the daring new production, reaching into their souls with the most potent of all human emotions, refusing to settle for anything less than their complete surrender. Having been over it so many times accompanied by unprecedented levels of tension, the performers and crew were not quite so given over to the music, though it certainly had a greater effect than in rehearsal; now that it was finally manifested in its true glory. 

Yet as the opera progressed, so did the feeling of unease amongst those assembled. As far as the audience was concerned, it was clear that the opera was taking an unprecedented direction – as the title had suggested – and given the sensuality and power of the music thus far, it was with no small amount of discomfort that they awaited the final act when all would be revealed. For those of the Ravelle who weren't aware, it was clear that something was going on, beyond that the Ghost's opera was being performed. There were far too many people backstage for the production, plus the managers and their young patron kept talking conspiratorially in hushed tones, sending each other meaningful glances whenever something happened. For said managers and patron, they were risking the Ravelle and one of its performers for the sake of a trap that – owing to a few careless moments of ineptitude on the part of the police – was looking as though it might not be what they were hoping for. It had taken long enough to convince the authorities to help them, particularly after the lack of success in their last investigation. That they were going off 'superstitions' and 'outlandish theories' didn't help much either. They had eventually been persuaded, however, but their reluctance to follow the instructions of a pair of over-excited managers and a rich boy was showing. Suffice to say their presence had not gone unnoticed. The doors had been locked as soon as the overture had finished. The full force of the available officers had been let in when the second act was underway with instructions not to move into position until the final act – unless it was absolutely necessary. But all the secrecy in the world could not keep hidden those who did not belong in the theatre – especially not when something unusual was expected. The three main conspirators were distinctly uneasy, given that their plan – the course of action which they had pinned all their hopes and a lot more besides on – was beginning to look extremely fallible. Their only hope was that one man – no matter how cunning or brilliant – was no match for so many trained, armed police.

No matter what the level of tension within the audience, the performers or even the police, it was no match for the turmoil Christine found herself in. Thus far, she had played the innocent Aminta with all the faith she could muster. Her voice rang out with a purity and clarity unrivalled by any that had trodden the boards before her, echoing the nature of her character perfectly. And yet, she had yet to surpass any of her previous performances as those who had witnessed them had come to expect: still she held back.

He wasn't here.

It was his opera, his music. _This_ was what he lived for, what he gave himself up to, and yet she knew he was not here. She had yet to feel his presence, and each time she was able to chance a look at Box 5, she still saw Raoul boldly sat there. Song after song, scene after scene, still there was no sign of him. Surely they hadn't succeeded in frightening him away, keeping him from seeing the fruition of all his work?

Standing in the wings, she listened as the now familiar music burst upon the air with the opening of the final act. This was it. This was the last chance . . . for so much and so many. Listening to the words, truly listening to them, Christine felt the knot in her stomach tighten again. They sang about her from Don Juan's point of view: as a piece of meat; the deserving victim of a cold, heartless seduction, for all the passion and fire on the stage. Was that what he really thought of her? That she had ignorantly thrown away everything that they were for some idle fancy? How many more torments could there possibly be in one opera? As if it wasn't bad enough that every prop, every costume on stage at present was meant to reflect the pit of fire at the heart of it all. How many times had she had to conquer herself because of that in order to make it through rehearsal?

At the sound of Piangi plotting with his Passarino, she cleared her mind, trying to remember why she was doing this, realising just how fitting her next words were. Distracted as she was, it was not difficult for her voice to have a far away air to it.

"No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy! No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!" All feelings of unease in the house were temporarily abated as the angelic voice rose and enchanted all who heard it. But the quiet strains of the orchestra meant that it did not last, rather the apprehension returned all the greater as the masked Don Juan emerged from behind a curtain where he had been hiding.

Having received what was meant to be a nod of encouragement from Raoul as she sang, she knelt down and placed the basket she carried before her, astonished to find a startlingly red rose there – the basket of flowers had been noticeably lacking in those during rehearsals. Carefully, she lifted the fragile bloom out and set to work on cleaning the stem with her fingers, wishing that a black ribbon had adorned it instead of the thorns.

"Passarino – go away! For the trap is set and waits for its prey . . ."

No . . . surely . . . he wouldn't . . . And yet there was no mistaking that voice. There was no way on this earth that Ubaldo could sing like that. Slowly, Christine turned her head. And there was certainly no way on this earth that Piangi had such a mesmerising presence.

"You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish, which till now has been silent, silent . . ." He raised a finger to his lips, bidding her be silent, as though his presence there was a secret meant for her and her alone – like at the Masquerade. Slowly, he moved across his side of the stage, like a panther. Dark and dangerous, he stalked her as she remained transfixed.

"I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge – in your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defences, completely succumbed to me – now you are here with me: no second thoughts, you've decided, decided . . ." With a flourish of the cape that was so undeniably him, he waited as she rose, silently obeying him: succumbing as commanded. He slowly circled her, keeping his distance yet tantalisingly drawing ever nearer.

"Past the point of no return – no backward glances: the games we've played till now are at an end . . . Past all thought of 'if' or 'when' – no use resisting: abandon thought, and let the dream descend . . ." He reached for her and in one movement was stood behind her, holding her so possessively, his hands arousing her in their caresses.

"What raging fire shall flood the soul? What rich desire unlocks its door? What sweet seduction lies before us . . .?" Running his hands down her arm softly where the scars were hidden, his lips hovered above her fingers as though he would kiss them. He sang of seduction and she felt desire; he caressed her and she felt desired like never before.

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold – what warm, unspoken secrets will we learn? Beyond the point of no return . . ." Once again, he was on the other side of the stage. He could be at her side within seconds – he had proved as much already – yet there was the distance. She felt a chill at his absence and pulled her sleeves back onto her shoulders.

This was the climax of the opera; the ultimate outpouring of all that he was . . . for her. Though he had commanded her with his movements, his music and his words from the instant he had appeared in Piangi's place; though he had to know that a trap was set, given the all too obvious police presence: still he stood there, waiting, letting her decide. She heard her cue, and of their own accord the words came pouring from her throat.

In truth, she did not know the reason why she was there, until he had appeared on stage beside her. Looking up at Raoul one last time, she shut her eyes as she uttered the next line, blushing as she realised that she had indeed imagined herself entwined with her Angel. But enough memories. The past was done, it could not be changed. Giving herself up to the moment instead, she surrendered to the truth that she had indeed come in pursuit of her deepest urge and she finally gave voice to the wish which had stayed silent for too long. Turning to her Angel, she absently felt those sleeves fall again. He looked at her in questioning wonder, and as she sang of her decision, she nodded in assurance. No matter what her Angel had done, no matter what he thought, no matter what he had planned, there was one truth that neither of them could deny.

She was his.

She did not sing as though she were trying to play Aminta. Finally, she understood: she _was_ Aminta – no – Aminta was her. He had not just written the part for her, he had written her; and with him there, there was no pretending. Her voice returned in all the glory that he had bestowed and that she herself could muster. Surrendering to the music, to her Angel and to her own desires, for the first time in her life she deliberately, consciously became the seductress. As the pair moved to the stairs at the back of the set, climbing them, she sang with passion and delighted in his look of astonishment as she all but offered herself to him with her movements.

Finally, they stood on the bridge together, above everyone else, set apart from everything other than themselves and the music. He was before her, moving towards her and their voices blended as one in a glorious harmony that had hitherto had no audience. Falling completely under his spell as he bewitched her with his voice again, she should have felt uncertain, faltered in her role of seductress, and yet she went on, the flames consuming them, all bridges and barriers between them consigned to the fire that burned furiously for all to see.

They reached each other at the height of the crescendo, meeting in an abrupt but fierce embrace. Until he turned her, drawing her back flush against him, his hands on hers as they moved in the most seductive of caresses over her body – though he never quite touched her himself. It was just like that first night that she had been dreaming of mere hours earlier, and yet it was so much more. Though he bewitched her, she was under a spell of her own making: the spell of her own desires which he fuelled with every touch, every breath. The heat of their performance burned so fiercely, it consumed all, forcing the orchestra to fade away until there was nothing left, save they two alone. And Christine was blissfully drowning in the sweet sensation.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime . . . Lead me, save me from my solitude . . ." The hands that had not dared to touch her were now lightly on her face, her neck, caressing her hair. Dazedly, she took one of them in her own, encouraging him. At his next words her eyes flew open. Was he really . . .? After all the separation, the pain they had each inflicted, was he actually saying . . .?

"Say you want me with you, here beside you . . ." Turning to face him, he held one of her hands in both of his, pleading with her. She reached to touch his face, but the mask was in the way. Though she heard her Angel, it was not he who stood before her, it was Don Juan. She had to see him.

"Anywhere you go let me go too – Christine, that's all I ask of . . ."

The screams of the forgotten audience shattered the moment.


	79. Chapter 78

**Author's Note: I honestly didn't think I'd get this posted today - I was at my Grandma's all day - but it turns out I was actually very nearly finished. It just took me forever because I had the tricky bit to do. Apologies for the cliffhanger of the last chapter, but that was all I had and you now how much I love doing that :) I'll try not to keep you hanging too much longer, but be warned: even though there are only two more chapters to go, the next one will undoubtedly be the hardest to write, and seeing as I was busy all day I haven't even started it, so it might not come as quickly as we'd all like.**

**Thanks to steelelf, jtbwriter, Lothiel (double thanks), mikabronxgirl (double thanks), Melodic Rose (double thanks), Soignante, Timeflies (double thanks), StakeMeSpike04, terbear, Kinetic Asparagus, TalithaJ, Phantom-jedi1 (double thanks) and Kalaia for their latest reviews. Jtbwriter, I hope you got my reply, because was a bit funny when I tried to send it. Looks like it supposedly got through though.**

**Thanks again for bearing with me, everyone, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 78

_Let me go with you._

Were it not for the plan he had already set into motion, he would have given in, taken her then and there and never let her go. Those hours following the visit to the cemetery had been both absolute bliss and complete torture. There was none like Christine could inflict such exquisite pain. The nights that seemed an eternity ago when she had slept in his embrace since none else could keep her nightmares at bay; those were some of the sweetest memories he cherished. And yet they paled in comparison to the fact that she had slept by his side; that he had held her close, felt her soft skin against his own; that she had cared enough to comfort him; that she had not been repulsed when he had pulled her down. He had been terrifying, cold, distant, and yet she had refused to leave him, had not shied away from touching him – quite the reverse. It was as though . . . as though she didn't care that he was trying to push her away, still she would remain. Since when had he been so easy to read? Yes, he wanted that above anything else, but it had been too soon. Still, it felt like she had seen right through him. Even though it had been Christine, it was an unnerving experience. She had been bold on occasion before, and given what she had said, looking back it was not surprising that she had behaved as she had.

No matter what discomfort her unusual behaviour might have induced, there was no doubt that those few hours had been paradise. When she had placed his head on her breast and sung to him, he could have died a happy man then and there. That she had stayed with him in the morning in spite of his attitude only added to the perfection.

Even as he left her, he knew that she spoke the truth when she denied having called for the boy or anyone else. He was actually grateful to the pup, grateful for the anger the very thought of him always inevitably inspired. Else he never would have been able to tear himself away from her. He had not dreamt the way she had looked at him, touched him, held him. Nor had he dreamt her words when he questioned her aid.

_Because I want to. Because I care. You're still my Angel._

And even when he had rejected her, effectively dismissed all that she had done for him, all her efforts to restore what they had had together, even then she still asked to go with him.

But he couldn't allow that.

Just as he couldn't resist holding her that one last time. It was only that ridiculous youth's constant hammering on the door that had meant he'd released her at all before they'd reached his lair. All that she had said and done had convinced him that he wasn't the only one this was difficult for. Watching her as she struggled through the preparations for his opera, he knew he wasn't the only one to feel torture at the present arrangement.

But he had to know.

Katie had left him. She had promised to always care for him, and she had left him. Knowing why it was she had left, and finally, blissfully understanding it for himself, he could no longer begrudge her for going. And he did have her to thank for Madame Giry's 'guardianship'. Yet she had left. That could not be denied. For so long after she left, even at his young age, he had thought that his life was finally at end. Music had been his only constancy since then; as ever, his only reason for existing. Until Christine. She had wanted to be with him, had asked to go with him, but he had to know that she wouldn't leave. He had to know that she would not crave all that the world could offer which he was unable to provide. He had to know that she could be at least content with his meagre existence. Too often had he risked much and been failed. Now, he risked all and he had to do all he could to succeed, else there truly would be nothing left in this world for him. Christine had come to outshine even Music itself, and he could not go back to thinking otherwise.

He had to know.

That was why he had stayed behind the door and listened to her conversation with the boy. She hadn't let him within the house, and she sounded as though his presence was unwelcome. When she had returned, she had seemed upset. Part of him had delighted at this, that it was because of the boy; part of him wanted to rip the fop apart for hurting her, a similar part to the majority of him that hated to see her upset at all.

When the news of his arrangements for the performance had been announced, Christine had been the only one to accept it calmly. He had been gratified to overhear her explanation to Madame Giry.

"It's his opera. He probably thinks he's settling by having the Ravelle perform it, but it's his music: he won't give us a deadline we can't meet."

She knew him well. Just as he knew her well. He saw what the news had done to her, what she had tried to hide. The first time she returned to her dressing room, he had watched her as she sank onto the sofa and simply sat there with her head in her hands for an hour. There were no signs of tears on her face when she finally raised her head – how he wanted to be the one to ease the ache her neck – only a tremendous weariness. The production was indeed taxing on her, as were all of her classes, but after his words to her, she performed as he expected. His opera truly was a masterpiece that would be the crucible for all at the Ravelle. For Christine . . . that counted all the more for her, only it was not merely her musical ability that was being tested.

Many times, he saw Madame Giry trying to get in touch with him, and was somewhat surprised to see the slip of paper underneath the door waiting for him.

_They're trying to trap you with Don Juan _

_Your Christine_

So that was what the ballet mistress had been seeking him for. That Christine was warning him as well in spite of the agreement gratified him immensely. That she signed off like that . . . he could not give in to the hope it presented, no matter how much evidence he received to support it.

He had not been surprised that the managers had sought to trap him – it wouldn't be the first time. That the young patron had been the brains behind it was hardly unexpected, though the gumption he'd shown certainly was. He had overheard Firmin and Andre discussing the 'intricacies' of their plan in their office. Their stupidity was a tremendous asset: the amount of times he had been able to eavesdrop on them really was incredible. That Dr Poligny was aware of it and had made no effort to contact him was disturbing, but he could see the old Dean had no hand in it, and grudgingly forgave him for looking after his students.

He had seen Christine's disappointment when she found the note, apparently unread after he'd returned it. Just as he saw how she struggled with the demands of the Ravelle, his opera and the gossip. He heard her calling out for him in her dressing room in those early days when she had returned to it. Countless times since she had tended his wound, he had stood at the threshold of her bedroom, watching in torment as she slept restlessly, reaching out for something. His mind was eased a little when she finally called out for her Angel one night. It gave him hope that sometime in the near future, she would call out his name, rather than a title born of a child's fancy – no matter how honoured he was by the endearment. Each time he watched her as she slept, he longed to reach out and just touch her, knowing that would soothe her as it had in the past, but he would not break his word. Not now that it mattered more than ever.

Sinking into a chair or the sofa and resting her head in her hands soon became a habit for her whenever she was in her dressing room. It was hardly surprising. Everyone felt the workload keenly, just as he had intended. For her though, his opera was meant to be so much more than just the work, and he knew that she knew it. Again, he would watch her in her dressing room – never as she changed – but not once did he see a tear fall. He knew they were just waiting to flow, yet never did she give in to them. She remained strong, but he knew she was breaking: he was breaking her. It was in these moments that he actually felt an overwhelming remorse. Would she hate him for what he was doing: for effectively having her ostracised; for showing her the full reality of his world, that which he had strived to keep hidden the first time? Would she even accept it, him when the time finally came?

One of these moments of doubt had caught him writing the note. He had written it some time ago for her after a rather disappointing rehearsal, but she had swiftly given him cause to keep it. She truly was a sight to behold. Determination would take control of her, she would walk into her place as though the stage was hers to command – and rightly so – then she would open her mouth and out would pour . . . Music. She was everything he hoped she would be. Then when she was finished, she would cast a glance to Box 5 or to the rafters, and disappointment would bring a frown to the face which had only seconds earlier glowed with triumph.

She was singing for him.

But not always. He awaited those instances with all eagerness, yet they did not occur at every rehearsal as they ought. That meant she wasn't always reaching out for him, singing his music for him, which of course fuelled his doubts. At the last rehearsal, he had been making his own preparations for the performance. Having spent months – no, his entire life – waiting and planning for the moment this night would offer, he knew better than to trust that all would run smoothly. As he had stood in the little room above the chandelier, he heard the final rehearsal. No doubt the nerves everyone felt had left them with the resolve that 'it would be alright on the night' for it certainly was not up to the standards he expected. Neither was Christine. She wasn't singing for him. Had she finally given up? This was the last rehearsal, the one that mattered above all others, and this was all she was giving? Looking down at his rose, he saw why: she was exhausted. He could only hope that the spell of his music still held as strong a power over her as it ever had.

Before returning to his home for his final preparations, he took a detour to the mirror. Seconds later, she entered, changed behind the screen and as he had come to expect, sat at her dressing table and let her head fall. Having spent so long watching her, he knew she would not be moving from that position for some time. Silently, he opened the glass and froze. Not a movement, not a change; she remained still, her breathing as even as it had been before. Softly, deftly, he crept forward until he stood right next to her. Taking the note from the folds of his cloak, he placed it just out of her line of sight. Still he stood there. She was so close, he could smell her perfume, hear her breathing, feel the warmth of her. Before he knew it, his hand had risen to those glorious tresses, but he caught himself before he could touch the golden silk. Yet, like the weak fool he was, he could not resist letting his hand ghost above the strands. Clenching his fist, he turned and disappeared through the mirror as silently as he had come. In his anger against himself, though he had moved silently, he had not been careful. When next he turned, she was staring straight at the mirror. He stepped back in shock when she launched herself at the pain of glass, seriously worried that she would harm herself as she assaulted it. As she sank down, he sank with her, his hand resting over hers. It was only as she asked 'why' that he was able to stop himself from opening the glass and answering.

He watched as she read the note, and as her head fell into its now familiar position. She would sing for him. He knew her well, just as he knew his music and its effect over her: she would sing for him, would give herself up to his music, and then she would know why it had all been necessary. Then he would learn if this cruelty they had both endured would indeed be justified.

Satisfied that she had calmed, he retreated. On his way back down to his lair, he heard some of the police who had no doubt come to ensnare him. A clattering told him they had just 'discovered' one of the prop cupboards and its contents, and that they were probably about as capable as the fools who had called them in. The Ravelle was his empire, the opera house its crowning glory, and he was its master. No matter what they tried, he knew the place too well for them to pose any real challenge, though he was glad he had thought ahead and prepared for the worst. Donning the familiar costume and mask with all the care of a first-time performer, he looked at the model of the set one last time. This had gone on long enough. Those incompetent morons had tried his patience for too long and even the joke they usually presented was wearing thin. Tonight, his opera would begin and the fates of many would be sealed.

Including his own.

* * *

He should have consigned the harpy to the chorus. As if it wasn't bad enough he had settled for allowing these _amateurs_ to perform his opera; it seemed as though they had ignored all of his instructions and were had chosen to massacre it. Piangi was a joke as Don Juan: too rotund for the part of the ultimate seducer and he dreaded to think what wardrobe had been thinking – if thought had been involved at all – when they'd painted that beard onto his chins. 

Then _she_ stepped onto the stage. Aminta, his Christine. She was what the opera needed, just as she was what his music needed. Within her opening measure, the orchestra seemed to get their act together as if by magic. They were still unworthy of his opera, but they proved themselves worthy of the Ravelle. Christine sang as he had taught her and filled him with pride, but there was something missing in her performance. She embodied the character, but she was not giving them Music as he knew she could. Then he saw: she kept looking towards Box 5, and looking away with disappointment. A gratified serenity swept over him. She needed him; on some level at least, even if it was only music and nothing else, she needed him. Finally, the anxiety slipped away to be replaced with all the hope he had felt since the moment he had first heard her voice all those months ago.

At last, the final act began. The officers they had tried to sneak in were now boldly scattered throughout the theatre, though mostly unobserved by the audience, so spellbound were they. The boy was obnoxiously sat in his box, but that was no matter, for the view the fop had would soon be cheapened by the one he would claim. He watched as they writhed and tangled themselves in the provocative choreography, then waited as Piangi 'sang' of his plans. As soon as the tenor retreated behind the curtain, he swooped down and cut off his cry with an easy flick of the lasso around his neck. Remembering the way the disgusting creature had handled Christine, _his_ Christine in rehearsals, the overly-lecherous way he had sung about her fuelled him as he cut off the air in the boy's throat. Those terror-stricken eyes were soon closed, but he stopped when he heard that sweetest of sounds. Quietly releasing his prey, he covered the lower half of his own face with his cloak and stepped out to finally behold his angel.

As soon as the first note came from his mouth, those nearest to him started to look at each other in question. When he lowered the cape to reveal a clean-shaven face, their astonishment was clear. But his eyes were locked on the lovely creature in the centre of the stage. So she had found his gift. As he introduced the seductive duet, she finally looked at him, completely still in her amazement. After all the waiting, he was able to answer the question she had asked mere hours ago in her dressing room. At last, she could know why he had done all of this: for her, for them. For she was his. Obediently, she rose, waiting, her breathing heavy, though he dared not hope he knew the cause.

He sang. In a way that only he could, he wove the spell of Music around her, drawing her to him, so that when he finally gave into the delicious temptation that she was, she did not shrink away in the slightest. Rather, the look of wonder returned. As he retreated though, not wanting to take what she would not give, wanting her to decide; he saw that that decision was not a foregone conclusion as he'd hoped. Setting his mouth in a determined frown, he saw as she looked up at the fop again, opening her mouth to sing.

"You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence . . ."

"I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why . . . In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenceless and silent – and now I am here with you: no second thoughts, I've decided, decided . . ." Could it be . . .? She had turned her back on the impudent youth and was singing to him, _for_ him, her eyes suddenly burning with a fire he had only ever glimpsed twice before. They moved to the stairs, climbing them, and he could not take his eyes off her. She was bold in her movements, giving herself up to the music and transforming into a seductress, yet magically retaining all the innocence of Christine.

"Past the point of no return – no going back now: our passion-play has now, at last, begun . . . Past all thought of right or wrong – one final question: how long should we two wait, before we're one . . .? When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames at last consume us . . .?" She was incredible. It was as though the flames had already consumed her, and they swept him up as well. Facing her, mere feet parting them, he was granted one of his greatest wishes: he sang with her, and all the world bore witness to the miracle of Music that was theirs alone.

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold – the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn . . . We've passed the point of no return . . ." She was enfolded in his arms, locked in the passion he had inspired, which she had freely given herself up to. He knew what was to happen next, what the score dictated, but that was Don Juan seducing Aminta, repaying her for deceit. Here was Christine, and he could not do that to her. Letting Music guide him, he finally gave voice to the plea his heart had been screaming for so long, daring to caress her sweet flesh at last.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime . . . Lead me, save me from my solitude . . ." She had taken one of his hands in his own. Turning her, he searched her face, desperately seeking acceptance as he went on. Seeing it there in her eyes, his voice then rose with all the hope he felt

"Say you want me with you, here beside you . . . Anywhere you go let me go too – Christine, that's all I ask of . . ."

_NO!!_

She had caressed his face, he had thought . . . And with one swift move, she had done the unthinkable and torn away his only protection. He had been so lost in his music and his Christine, he had forgotten the audience. Their screams were the cruellest possible reminder of their presence. He stared at the woman before him in tortured agony. _Why_ had she done it? Seeing tears in her eyes, tears of sorrow, he knew the spell had been broken. He had lost. But he would not lose her.

Looking around briefly, he saw the disgust of the horrified masses who had only seconds ago adored both he and his music. So be it. They wanted a monster, they could have a monster! But they would never have him, and they would never have his Christine. Pulling her tightly to him, he ignored her struggles, and drew the sword that he now wished had been stained with more of the fop's blood, slashing the red cord that he had placed there only recently. The platform opened beneath them and together with his rose, he fell through the floor, into the pit of 'fire' and below the stage, away from that cruel world and into his own.

They were followed only by the sickening sounds of wood and stone breaking, and the screams of all still up there as the mighty chandelier, the glory of the Ravelle fell crashing from the ceiling to the stage, sending the entire opera house into chaos and flames. They had consigned him to darkness and so he dealt them the same fate. They had offered him nothing but the blackest despair and so he returned the favour as he took away all that they had delighted in.

The second his feet had touched the ground, he snatched up one of his torches and started dragging Christine carelessly down a tunnel invisible to all eyes save his own. She stumbled, caught on to the wall. Of course she would resist! For all that she had surrendered to his voice; they neither could ever escape the monster that lay beneath the surface.

He heard her pleading with him to stop. What else? But no matter her wiles, he would NOT give in to her this time, and so he kept pulling on the slender limb he held in his own wretched hands.

"Stop, my dear? Of course, you fear the darkness," he spat 'darkness', making it clear where he thought her fears really lay, "but where else would we go, other than the black prison of my mind? This dungeon deep as Hell has been my only sanctuary; true cold and dismal, but I have never been granted any other shelter," he finally rounded on her, pulling her wrist so she had no choice but have her face inches from his own as he railed, "and why? Because of the curse which is my abominable face!"

So lost was he in the horror the evening had descended into – his hopes shattered by her betrayal, her fear – that he all but flung her into the boat that would carry them to his home. He propelled them on so furiously, she was forced to stay on the vessel's floor, clinging to it in shock and breathlessness. And all the while he was lost in his own ravings now that he finally had reason and audience for them.

"I always longed to give Music to the world, but I am Charon! All they see is death from head to toe. Everywhere, I am hated, rejected, hounded out," he lifted her none too gently out of the boat and into his home, dragging her over to the mannequin, "nowhere can I find peace, only scorn and fear. Never compassion," holding her head, forcing her to look at him and pleading for a truth contrary to what he knew all too clearly, he finally addressed her,

"Christine, why? _Why_?"


	80. Chapter 79

**Author's Note: I know I said I would try and have it done by the weekend, but I was very stuck. I actually had it finished yesterday, but that was without editing and I hadn't answered my reviews yet, which is why there was another slight delay. Speaking of which: APOLOGIES!!! Much grovelling!! Sorry everyone. Hopefully it will be worth the delay. I'll keep this short because you've been patient with me long enough, and I am ever so grateful for that.**

**Thanks to KyrieofAccender (triple thanks), Timeflies, Lothiel, mildetryth, Kinetic Asparagus (11 'thank you's - that was some phenomenal catch-up reading), phantom-jedi1, Passed Over, jtbwriter, Lady Winifred (double thanks), Spectralprincess, Nedjset (ola! muito obrigadinha), Melodic Rose, Nyasia A. Maire (funky screen name), mikabronxgirl, StakeMeSpike04 and Mystery Guest for their latest reviews.**

**Thanks to phantom-jedi1, Kinetic Asparagus, Nyasia A. Maire, Tiemflies, Passed Over, Lothiel, Kalaia and Nedjset for replying to my Author's Note. Sorry! Forgot to put the PM note in there. But you did give me a tremendous encouragement. Yes, even you Nedjset!**

**Here it is: the penultimate chapter. To everyone who has read thus far: thank you so much for sticking with me this long. To everyone who has sent in even one review thus far: THANK YOU!! Your feedback has been a tremendous encouragement to me. But enough! For the last time in _A Father's Promise_: thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are - to the best of my knowledge - the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 79

He had never seen anything more breathtaking. Somehow, in that moment, he knew it was hopeless.

He had spent weeks trying to watch over her, seeing how anxious she was about everything. Of course, she put most of it down to the stresses of the opera, but it was obvious that she was troubled by so much more. Ever since he had announced his plan to capture that monster, Raoul had made every effort to see her, to comfort her. It was an intolerable position that he had put her in, and he knew that. Almost as soon as he had begun implementing it, he had realised that no matter how much he did to safeguard her, the chances of it being enough were slim – and they became more so as the fateful night approached. Now that she finally knew how he felt about her, what he hoped, he couldn't risk losing her. Even before he'd begun, he'd known it wasn't a good time, that there was every chance it would only worry her further, given how close they were as friends – but the way things seemed to have been going ever since they'd reunited, it didn't look as though there was going to be a good time this side of the 'Ghost' issue being resolved. He had hoped that if she knew how important she was to him, that she might be glad there was someone else there for her who wasn't part of her adopted family; someone willing to share in every aspect of her life, someone who was willing to do all that it took to look after her. He had hoped, knowing that she could, that she would lean on him, trust him more.

Since then though, he'd hardly seen her. Well, of course he'd seen her, given how much time he'd spent at the Ravelle, but it felt like they'd hardly exchanged two words since that day. Yet he still had cause to hope: why else would her eyes find his so often whenever he was there? His Little Lotte had been through so much, he only hoped that this last trial would not break her. Even in their games as children, he'd looked after her, protected her; she'd always been his heroine, his leading lady – depending on what they were playing at. It was as though it was destined: her father had joked about the day the two of them would get married – of course that had been ridiculous to the boy he had been then – and his own father had thought highly of hers. She had been his dearest friend as a boy; now, as a man, he just knew they were meant to be more, together. If only it weren't for this blasted Ghost!

He had watched her during rehearsals. Most of the time, he could see the toll it was all taking on her, and he wished the schedule wasn't so ridiculous – of course, given who was behind the opera, it was hardly surprising. Sometimes though, an almost dazed look would come over her, similar to one she had worn at the Masquerade, and somehow he knew what she was thinking about. That was when, if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn an angel had come down to sing; or maybe she _was_ the angel. His brave little girl; proving how strong she was even under all that pressure. She really was incredible.

The day before the performance, he tried harder than ever to speak with her, thinking she might need it then more than ever, but all he had managed was to exchange a – hopefully – reassuring glance with her. But with all the optimism in the world, there was no disguising the worry that flooded her features as she saw him, no doubt allowing her defences to drop momentarily.

Then it all began.

Almost from the moment Don Juan took to the stage in the final act, he saw a change in her. When he saw her freeze, he had become concerned, and his attention once more became focussed on the night's intent. Then, partway through _that_ song, the one which had raised so many eyebrows, he realised: Piangi's voice had changed. The way he handled – no – held Christine was incredible. At first, she had been still, inanimate, but in the blink of an eye she was responding to his every touch with a fervour he had never seen in her before – except in anger.

Until she stepped away from him.

He wasn't sure if it was in the choreography or not, because the members of the cast who had appeared in the wings to watch certainly looked surprised. When she began to sing, he knew why. She looked up at him, and suddenly he knew who was down there with her. Turning to the officer stood just behind him and to the managers who quickly summoned one of their own, he felt some relief as they were all made aware of the . . .the audacity! The Ghost hadn't been content with merely attending; he had to actually perform his opera. It was actually brilliant, given that they couldn't do anything about it without jeopardising everyone, Christine especially. Of course, this was mostly lost on the young patron as soon as the lady in question turned to face Don Juan.

For the first time in his life, he finally understood something of why she was so passionate about music. She was magnificent. Everything about her was given up to the song, to the moment . . . to the man before her.

They were intoxicating together. With every step she took, he saw her taking a step away from him, and as she reached the platform, he found himself on his feet, willing her to stop, yet unable to bring the moment to an end, so powerful was this climax and the response it inspired within him.

He had never seen anything more breathtaking. Somehow, in that moment, he knew it was hopeless.

The dancers below the pair – the men who had appeared during the first solo, the women from the second – came together at the same moment the duet reached its pinnacle, mimicking the movements of the two leads, though they didn't begin to capture the depth of passion that was so evident in them. Instead, they merely highlighted it further, if that were possible or even necessary. In that moment, he saw the woman that Christine had become; he saw the passion she was capable of, the desire, and he saw it all inspired by and directed towards another. When he heard that voice softly whispering its musical plea, he realised what this had all been about: Christine.

And he thought he'd been willing to risk everything for her.

As she turned to her masked companion, some part of him acknowledged that it wasn't just the choreography, just the actions of the moment that had her turning from him. Her hand lifted to his face as the entire auditorium finally heard the true meaning of the opera. When the leather came away in her grasp . . .

He had to bring her back.

That thing was a monster after all. As he raced away from the infamous Box 5, he realised: she must have known, she'd done the only thing she could to disarm him, to keep him there. She'd taken his defences and left him open for the plan to be fulfilled. His brave Little Lotte. When the screams began anew, and he heard a sickening cracking sound, he hurried back, calling out a horrified but useless protest as the mighty chandelier began its lethal descent to the fleeing masses below. They were all ruined!

But his Lotte wouldn't be.

Speeding along his original course, he headed down and towards the stage, hoping the wreck of the chandelier wouldn't completely hinder his pursuit. Shoving his way through the panicked masses, he finally neared his goal when a familiar flash of black caught his eye.

"Madame Giry!" Catching up with her, he joined her as she hurried along. "Where is he?" Tugging him to one side and out of the crush of bodies, she looked at him, desperation showing on her features.

"Madame, please, where has he taken her?" Even knowing that she was doing the unthinkable by breaking her word, Antoinette allowed her fear for her daughter to override any other concerns.

"Follow me." Taking him down one of the few paths that was unlikely to have been travelled on recently, she led him into the dark passageways the Institute was built on.

She hadn't seen any of this coming! That he was up to something serious had been unmistakeable, but that he would go this far, open himself up to such reckless danger . . . she couldn't have begun to imagine anything of the like. When she had seen the two singing together up on that platform, she had had such hope . . . and now she felt only fear as she remembered the look in his eyes as he had sunk below the stage with Christine in his clutches. As she led the boy along the darkened corridors, she prayed: prayed to Katie that she would forgive her if anything happened to either of her children; prayed that Christine was safe from harm, and most of all, prayed that she wasn't leading the eager young patron to his death.

Her sudden thought reminded her of what she had run from in bringing the boy down here.

"I must return, and I dare not go any further." Raoul looked at her, suddenly uncertain by what she'd said. Giving him directions that should ensure his safe passage through, she left him with one final word:

"Remember; keep your hand at the level of your eyes."

* * *

Would there be no end to this torment? 

As if those terrible screams had not been enough, the look in his eyes when she finally saw him face to face told her more than any words known to man how cruelly she had hurt him with that one action. Once again the spell had been broken. And her Angel along with it. She had lost him.

And when he cut the cord that sank them beneath the stage, she knew that she too was lost.

The mock flames that gave way to darkness had the old fears rising up faster than ever before, but they were nothing to what she felt as she was unceremoniously dragged down the labyrinthine tunnels, her arm bound in a merciless iron grip. She tried to stop him, to hold back, but he pulled her regardless, taking her protests as further signs of rejection or disgust. When he turned on her in the middle of his ranting, it was all she could do not to cry in pain as his hold tightened all the more. As she sat in the boat, hanging on for dear life, she truly felt fear because of the man she was with. He had spoken callously to her before, been cruel with his words, but he had never been so violent towards her. And there was no getting through to him now.

She heard his tirade, felt his anger all too keenly as he pulled her from the boat; but as he finally looked at her, finally spoke to her, she saw his pain. She had promised never to betray him again, and had broken her word in the worst way imaginable. But she had no answer to give to his cries, for in truth she couldn't understand it either. And had she tried to offer a defence, to tell him he had known compassion, that he had been given kind words, somehow she knew he then would have been the one offering scorn. Words were the problem, so she offered a solution: she raised her hand to the left side of his face in a gentle caress.

Briefly he closed his eyes; fleetingly she saw a look of bliss sweep across his features, perfect and marred alike. Then he hardened once more, took hold of her wrist and harshly flung it away. About to question him, she froze as he pulled the wedding dress off the mannequin. The model of her looked quite pathetic without the beautiful garment adorning it, but that was the least of her concerns. He held the gown out to her, even as they both knew it was no longer in offering. She looked to his eyes in question – or was it a plea? – but was only met with two volcanoes that she knew were just moments away from erupting. Taking the dress, it was as though she'd taken a weight from his shoulders, although the crux of it still clearly remained. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he guided her to the cavern containing the swan bed. Pausing at the entrance, she ventured:

"Angel-"

"Go." He cut her off with a voice of icy steel, and so she acquiesced.

How was it possible for him to be so filled with contradiction? His anger was burning like a furnace, and yet he spoke to her so coldly. Still he seemed to drink in her touch even after what had happened, what she had done, and yet there were bruises forming on her wrist from the way he had handled her. Moments ago, he had sung to her of love . . . he had finally said it . . . though it had not quite been the right words, they had meant just as much, if not more so. Moments ago, he had sung to her of love in front of everyone at the Ravelle, yet now it was as if he couldn't bear the sight of her. So why had she lowered the curtain to change into the dress that had caused her so much anxiety in the past? Why, if he couldn't stand the sight of her, had he commanded her to don a wedding gown?

_We've passed the point of no return . . ._

She had betrayed her Angel, and now she had the Ghost to contend with; the Ghost who was behind Don Juan, who _was_ Don Juan. He had told her over and over that he would never leave her, and it looked like his word was finally manifesting itself in an all too concrete way: she was his, and she was to belong to him in every sense of the phrase. But why the wedding dress? Was that some kind of illusion, or did it mean that there was still hope, that he still held enough regard for her, that her Angel was still there and she hadn't lost him completely?

Gathering all the strength she had left, she pulled the cord and raised the black curtain which kept her shielded from the rest of the lair. Walking slowly, but with determination, she entered the main cavern, and found him standing near his work area, his back to her as he leaned against a covered mirror.

"Did you think I really was Aminta?" He turned to face her, and though she was startled at once again seeing his face, it was not through revulsion. He remained silent, simply staring at her as though he couldn't believe his eyes. "Does Music dictate that I am to be your 'sacrificial lamb'?" She drew on his own words to fathom his true intent. Moving slowly nearer, he answered.

"You'll think it strange, no doubt: so long I have been denied the joys of the flesh," he reached for her face but she turned away, refusing to be touched by him as he spoke so callously; he settled for stroking her hair "and yet I am _Don Juan_! Once a woman sees me, she can never be free . . . you can never be free from this curse . . . this cursed face which my own mother couldn't bear, my unhappy mother who gifted me with my first mask." She was looking at him now, had been from the moment he had given himself the seducer's name. Once again she was filled with sorrow over the fate of her Angel. But as he reached for the veil and placed it none too gently on her head, it seemed that what she thought was of little matter. "But no more! There is only our life together, my dear: a life of _this_!" he cried, fuelled by bitterness as he harshly turned her to him, pointing at his face. All she could do was stare in realisation, a state which only grew when he placed a ring into her left palm, folding her fingers around the sacred band.

She remembered how he had behaved when she had first removed his mask, all that he had said, the way he had gone from a towering inferno to a broken man weeping at her feet in a matter of moments. She remembered how the night before he had shown her all that he was, all he could offer, how . . . alive he had been. She remembered how he had sung of love even when he believed that had all been ruined; how he had sung of love even at the height of his seduction mere minutes ago. Yet now as he gave her the ring, he dared not breathe the words? All because of . . . his face?

Keeping hold of the ring, she took his head in her hands and said what she should have that fateful night so long ago.

"There is no demon here; I never saw a monster in you." Softly, she allowed her hands to brush tenderly across the marred features to emphasise her point before moving to the mirror he had been stood in front of and once again removing the cover. "The only true darkness rests in your soul." He did not look at her or his reflection though his eyes showed a hesitant understanding. Had he finally accepted?

"One moment, my dear, I believe we have a _guest_."

* * *

Her eyes were filled with shock, horror – hardly surprising, and yet she reached up to touch his face. Ever since she had run to him and he had first held her in his arms after that appalling confrontation with the harpy, he had drowned in each moment of contact, no matter how brief or accidental. There were few pleasures he held in higher esteem than when she touched him of her own volition, for few had ever sought to before – at least not in kindness. For his rose to still desire that closeness even after . . . it was the left side she touched. 

She knew the power she held, the power he couldn't help but grant her, and she was using it again! Of course, she wouldn't touch the other side, she wouldn't want to caress the demon! She had only ever sought the embrace of an _angel_. As if a demon could ever hope to claim a seraph.

_Enough!!_

Whether that was the case or not, he would claim her. She was his. By her own words – whether or not she regretted them now – by her mother's own words, and by his own design, she was his. And he would not succumb to her wiles before that had been made certain. Turning away, he took hold of the garment that he had made with such hope, that still embodied all he had ever dreamt of and silently held it out to the one person who held sway over those dreams. The longer she stared at him, the more he despaired, and the more his fury grew. When she finally took it, his shoulders relaxed of their own volition. Perhaps it was not too late, perhaps he had not terrified her too much, perhaps he still held enough power over her. Gently, more gently than he had thought possible, he guided her to where she could change in privacy. He was not an animal.

He froze as she turned to him, but did not allow her to speak, instead giving voice to his silent commands. He saw the hurt in her eyes, saw a mask of emptiness cover her features. He would not give in! His resolve was fixed, and she would not break it with a simple word, no matter what power was contained within those two syllables. It was what she had mouthed when she'd first seen him, though he doubted she realised he had truly been there. Her eyes had been filled with such awe and . . . hope. Until then, she had merely intrigued him; in that moment, she had begun to possess him. Now, after all his waiting, all his efforts, all that he had done for her, he finally sought to return the 'favour'. Her eyes had been filled with hope, and that in turn had given birth to his. No matter what she thought of him now, his hope had yet to be destroyed: only she could do that. Considering the diamond he held in his hand he once more thought of her, of the path that they had taken: the diamond was unique, exquisite, perfect, pure; as was she, as she had been in his eyes since that moment when he had first become her Angel, even if in name only: the golden band was complete, unending, true, as was his devotion to her. But the gem as a whole was incomplete: without a finger to grace, it was merely a bauble representing unfulfilled intentions. Once again, she had called him her Angel, but he was no Angel and could not offer her that. Nor would he offer her the monster the rest of the world saw and rejected. Who was left? What could he offer her that she had not already shunned?

_. . . in your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defences, completely succumbed to me . . ._

He had sung that to her, for her, and yet it was her line in every other way as well, for that was what she did to him. She was the real seductress in spite of the music he had created and woven for her, and yet she didn't even know it. She truly was Aminta – no – Aminta truly was Christine . . . Either way, that was what she had yet to shun . . . quite the reverse . . . the way she had looked at him as they climbed those stairs, the way she had felt in his arms, the fire within her that had filled her voice with more passion than he had ever heard; she had felt so . . . alive, had been so alive. Everyone else saw him as death from head to toe – that had been no exaggeration – but for Don Juan, _she_ had been _alive_!

"Did you think I really was Aminta?"

Turning, all thought fled his mind as for the first time in his cursed existence he looked upon heaven. The gown had been created with her in mind, and though it now seemed completely unworthy, she was still the image of perfection. Truly, she had to be an angel.

Her next words brought him back down to earth; the undertones of contempt in her voice placing him back on the brink of hell. He remembered his resolve, remembered what he had to do, what was needed. Yet he could not stop himself, his true self, from surfacing even under the mask of Don Juan – the only mask he wore now. All that he had been through, all that he had suffered even at the hands of those who were meant to protect him, it all came pouring through into his words. He saw the pity in her eyes, but that was nothing to what he truly desired . . . what every fibre of his being needed. Continuing regardless, he placed the veil on her head, all but completing the picture as he finally gave voice to his ultimate design. They were not the words he wanted to use, not the words he had ever even intended for this moment; now was not the time to frighten or repulse her further and his regret was instantaneous. But she had to know, had to stop seeing him as an 'Angel' or his hope had been in vain from the start; and he could not endure that.

Gently, he placed the ring into her hand and closed her fingers around it. She could not think the worst of him, he could not let her think that was all he was; but he could no longer find the words to ask.

Once again she brought him to a halt, once more she stopped the heart that beat only for her: for the first time he felt her gentle touch on his twisted flesh. As the touch turned into a caress, his eyes closed in ecstasy and he could almost believe her as she claimed there was no monster in her eyes. When she removed the cover on the mirror, he did not have the strength left to look. But he did hear as she acknowledged the reality: there was a very real darkness within him. She acknowledged it and still she had touched him, still she stood there, still she looked at him. Still she waited in the gown of white. How was it possible?

Unless she had meant all that she had said. Unless his hope was true? Was it possible she could . . .?

_NO!!_

How _dare_ . . .?! Well, at least it looked like the fop had found himself on the wrong side of some of his more interesting traps, though how he had gotten into the bowels of the opera house he could not fathom. At least his strength had returned: the insolent youth had interfered for the last time. Just a few more moments and Christine . . . his Christine . . . he could have said those words and meant them in every way but for that wretched . . .!

"One moment, my dear, I believe we have a _guest_."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his rose turn in confusion to where he was looking.

"Welcome, young sir, it is truly a _delight_ to have you in my home." As the boy approached, making some overblown plea to free her, the lady in question rushed to his side where he promptly wrapped his arm around her waist, preventing her getting any nearer to the boy.

"He makes a passionate plea, my dear." His voice dripped with disdain, but his eyes never left his rival so long as Christine was in his grasp.

"Please, Raoul-"

"I love her! Have you no compassion?"

"I was never taught any!" He answered furiously, outraged that the fool was suggesting something that made him out to be an animal.

"At least let me see her." Raoul pleaded

"Be my guest, sir." With his free hand he gestured to the water separating the three of them, which thus far the boy had not braved – presumably having had enough of it on his journey down. Cautiously, the young one entered the misty depths, edging forward and keeping his eyes on the water. Seeing his enemy's unease, he decided to encourage it. Casting his voice about the cavern, he brought it to focus around the tremulous path that was being trod, which he silently began to walk.

"Did you really think that I would harm her; that she would pay for your crimes? Did you believe I could ever punish her in your place?!" As his words came to a close, he reached into the waters, drew out the rope used for securing the boat and wrapped it around the boy's neck. Within seconds the noose was secure before he even had the chance to look up.

"You think you can challenge me? Make your feeble plans! Use your position and wealth, fall back on your popularity, but here it means nothing! _Nothing!_ None of it will save you, nothing can, except perhaps Christine." Satisfied that the boy wasn't going to move, he turned back to the figure of his design. "Well, my dear? I am tired of living like this, tired of being shunned by the world, hiding away in the dark. I want to _live_, just like anyone else. You've been a part of my world, now be a part of my life."

"Christine, what's he talking about? Don't say you love him?!" Raoul asked in horror as he stared at the woman before him, finally seeing her in the wedding gown.

Something inside snapped. That little wretch was _daring_ to address his rose, to interrupt yet again! Tugging on the rope enough to silence him without any real damage, he went on.

"Enough! I have had my fill of this pup. You have no idea how much I have wanted to do this each time he has dared touch you. One word from you my dear and he will be free. But refuse me, and it will be all over with our precious patron." The last words came out as something of a snarl, but the boy didn't deserve better.

"Angel, why are you doing this? Do you want me to hate you?"

"Christine, don't throw your life away. I fought so hard, but he'll still win."

The two young voices mingled with one another, but they did not merge. Theirs was a union that was not meant to be, and one way or another he would see to it that it didn't happen.

"When will you see reason?" She spoke so quietly, he wasn't sure if he was meant to hear, but hear he did. If she was speaking to him, he had no time for negotiations; if she was speaking to the boy, then he had cause for hope. Either way, the time for such things had passed.

"Too late for pleas and pity. There is no turning back: _this_ is the point of no return."

"Do you want her to lie to you for me?" He tightened the noose again, and the boy fell silent.

"Why did you deceive me, Angel? I gave you my soul . . . blindly." Her voice trembled. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Were they of sorrow or regret?

"You've tested my patience long enough. Make your choice."

* * *

She looked on in horror as the nightmare she had longed feared became all too real. 

For a brief moment, she thought she had gotten through to her Angel; that he had returned to her from whatever darkness his soul had retreated to. Whilst he had frightened her, she had not been completely surprised. The moment she heard those screams, she knew she had made a tremendous mistake; and though it sounded weak in some way, she was willing to pay the price for it so long as she could be near her Angel again. But Raoul was not supposed to be a part of that cost. He wasn't even supposed to be here! He wasn't part of this realm, he didn't belong here. It seemed sacrilegious to have the world above trespassing in this place.

But she was a part of that world, just as surely as she belonged in this one. It was true: either way she couldn't win. Whatever choice she made, she would be closing the door on a world which held a great claim over her. Whatever choice she made, she would lose one who held a prominent place in her heart: Raoul was her closest companion from her childhood, the idyllic past she did not have the strength to give up; her Angel was . . . words could not express the place he held in her life . . . in her heart, and the future was even more desolate than the present without him.

Raoul's pleas fell on deaf ears, though his declaration had been surprising. How could he say those things after such a short time? What encouragement had she given him beyond friendship? And yet he was literally risking life and limb for her.

Her Angel's words were horrifying. He was risking everything on this moment. If he killed Raoul, he was as good as assured that she would hate him, not to mention the fact that he would be hunted down with more fervour than ever before. This was the Ghost at work. He had taken over her Angel yet again, filling her world with death and darkness and obscuring the man whom she had trusted so willingly, so faithfully . . . so blindly all along.

_The man whom she had trusted . . . _

He was not an Angel, nor a ghost. He was a man: a man who stood with three lives in his hands; a man who manipulated, cheated and ruled with fear; a man who had killed. A man who ruled with threats and terror because that was all he knew. Looking into his eyes, she saw the fire of his rage, but also his hurt. She saw the venom with which he held the rope around her friend's neck, the all-too ready willingness with which he would use it, but she also saw his hands tremble. Whatever fear she felt was nothing to his, and that was what she saw clearest of all in his eyes. She had not been far wrong when she had believed the mannequin to be the embodiment of his hopes: looking into the eyes of her dark mentor, she saw that _she_ was his hope. Raoul had not been wrong when he'd said that everyone's hope rested on her – though she doubted he had included her Angel in that.

But what could she do? One false word and Raoul would be lost as surely as she. Somehow she knew that if he killed Raoul, her Angel would never return to her, whether he kept her with him or not. And she doubted if she could ever view him the same way if another life was lost in his pursuit of her. Searching his face, she found her answer.

Wordlessly, she entered the water, heedless of the temperature or the damage it might do to the lovely gown. As silently as the waters allowed, she moved slowly towards her Angel. As surely as she was his hope, he was hers; he had become no less in the time she had known him, in actuality, he had become so much more and she tried to let that show in her face as she neared him. When she was merely a few steps away, she took his ring and placed it on her left hand, wishing his hands were fulfilling the binding task. She drew nearer even as he let his bitter mask slip in uncertain astonishment.

Fleetingly praying her mother would understand that she had to break the rules, Christine stood before her Phantom. Slowly, deliberately, she took his head into her hands and lifted her own so that her lips could trace a loving path across the marred flesh until she met him in a gentle but firm kiss. An eternity passed in that moment. An eternity of shared loneliness and longing, of unfulfilled passion and desire finally answered. All too soon they parted. Christine looked into the eyes she loved, hoping to see something similar there. She didn't. What she saw was overwhelming. There were no masks now. All she saw was the love and desire that had fuelled both him and his obsession so completely. This time it was his head that lowered and instead of tenderness, their kiss was a true fulfilment of the passion that had possessed them both only moments ago on the stage: the passion that had stirred within them since they had together surrendered to the music of the night. They gave themselves up to each other completely, surrendering all else to the moment they had been waiting for so long.

When they eventually parted, Christine briefly saw a look in her Angel's eyes that she had only witnessed once before, when she'd held him in her arms as he slept: contentment. In that one moment, she knew he was happy. In that one moment, she had granted him what he had no doubt sought for his whole life; and in that one moment she knew that she would do anything he asked if it would only ensure that his present contentment continued. Which is why when he broke, when his face twisted into an image of anguish, she was filled with worry.

He threw the rope into the water, effectively freeing Raoul, and moved back to his lair. Away from her.

"Take her and go. Don't let them find you here."

He was talking to Raoul? Suddenly she remembered the state her friend was in and hurriedly loosened the rope that bound him. Instantly, he took hold of her hand and began pulling her away. What was happening? Did he still not understand, was he rejecting her once again? Looking back, she briefly caught sight of his face again. He could not be that broken if he was truly turning his back on her.

He was freeing her.

He was giving her her life, her friend, her world. But he didn't understand that he was taking her heart. Already out of sight of that great cavern, she stopped Raoul, even as she suddenly heard the 'them' her Angel had been speaking of. The masses who had been above were descending, and they were looking for blood.

"No, Raoul, I have to go back."

"Christine, you're free. If we hurry, we can both be rid of this place forever." he answered breathlessly, still struggling after the last few minutes. She looked at him steadily, and taking back her hand, replied.

"I am free."

Hurrying back, she was relieved that she didn't hear Raoul trying to follow her, though she didn't hear him leave either. Searching for her Angel, she found him seated on the end of the great swan bed, his mask in his hands. His one remaining comfort, his one remaining protection from the world, though it was apparently no longer needed. She entered the smaller cave and moved towards him slowly, suddenly uncertain at seeing his soul bared so painfully clear in his features. He raised his head and finally saw her.

_Christine_

The word was barely a whisper, as though he couldn't believe she was truly there. One of his hands reached out to her, seemingly of its own volition. When she moved to take it, he snatched it back as he snapped back into reality.

"Christine, I love you." The words came out on a melody sung with a broken voice, both of which she knew would haunt her forever. Slowly, she took the ring off her finger, and placed it in his hand, closing his fingers around the sacred band just as he had done with her only moments ago – though it felt like an age.

_One word, Angel, just one. Ask me to stay, please, my Angel. Just ask me to stay. Or do you truly want me to leave?_

Her eyes pleaded with him, but he remained silent, though his face spoke volumes. His features were filled with pain, all the pain of his life thus far, magnified by what he was doing to them both with his silence. Yet still the love which he had finally revealed to her remained in his eyes, for it would take a great many masks to hide that now that it had at last been brought to the light. He turned his head away, to stare at his hand which was wrapped around the ring, and she had her answer. Whether he wanted it or not, she was to leave.

Unable to find the strength of will to resist, Christine moved to his side and wrapped her arms around his neck, resting his head in the crook of hers as his face rested on her breast. Tearfully, she placed one last kiss in his hair as she obeyed her teacher for the last time. Leaving, she could not look at him again or she would have failed him. Instead, she whispered:

"Live, my Angel."


	81. Chapter 80

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work. 

Chapter 80

The house was old. And everything about it was dark: from the grey stone it was built of to the trees and overgrown garden that kept it isolated and hidden from the road and any curious passers-by. It looked like it hadn't been lived in for decades, never mind years. Had a storm broke instead of there simply being more cloud than blue in the sky, the picture would have been complete.

It was perfect.

Christine turned to Antoinette, this woman whom she had turned to since the death of her mother and who had taken care of her since . . . in the last few months. Antoinette searched her face and saw no signs of disgust or disappointment. Instead she saw something they all thought had been gone for good in those eyes: hope.

"Are you ready?" she asked her second daughter.

"I think so. I'll just do one last check." Christine's voice quavered a little as she spoke. They both knew nothing needed to be checked, as that had been done several times already. Saying goodbye was not something she did easily, having had to do it so often in her young life already, and so painfully.

Antoinette allowed her some privacy as she bid farewell to the house that had become her home in the last two years. After the tragic debut of _Don Juan_, the Ravelle had moved to another location nearby as the police launched a massive investigation at the behest of a number of the Institute's patrons, yet nothing had been found. Not even the mysterious 'lair' that the young de Chagny had described in such detail. No sign of the Opera Ghost had been seen since. Though the stories and rumours still continued, life had gone on. Classes had resumed, and Christine had managed to graduate at the top of her year, in spite of the fact she had reverted to being her old quiet self. At least she wasn't silent. Most of the time, unless the whole affair was mentioned, she was usually forgotten. Except for when she sang. Then, no one spoke, no one applauded, they simply listened in awe and respect. And then she became a shadow again.

That she had gotten into the Royal College of Music was truly a miracle, and though it meant her being out from under her watchful eye, Antoinette was grateful her daughter could put so much distance between herself and all that had happened. She still didn't know it all. Christine hadn't confided in anyone, least of all the psychologist the police had insisted she see. She had spoken about everything she had been asked except for what happened that night. Thankfully the doctor had taken the hint and she had eventually been left in peace.

Her daughter had changed tremendously. Yes, she was much the same as when she had first come here, as when she had been mourning her father; but instead of bearing it as one who has been forced to grow up ahead of her time, she bore it as a woman, for that is what she had become, and she had done so beautifully. Wherever her other charge was, Antoinette was grateful to him for that.

She still could not go a day without thinking of him, worrying about him and what he was up to. It was more than just habit: in many ways he had been a son to her, just as he had been to Katie. Sighing, she returned to her first daughter, placing an arm around her in a rare but tender moment, as she remembered the children she still had to watch over.

* * *

She had checked the house so many times that if she hadn't already known every inch of it by heart, she would have had it down pat by now. This time, she was saying goodbye. Every place where he had been, every place where she had been with him, she lingered over hoping to feel some remaining trace of his essence. Ever since that night though, she knew he was gone. It wasn't simply an absence of his presence; it was a complete and utter lack of anything to indicate he had ever been there. It was like losing her father all over again; it was like dying but being forced to live. Once again she had lost the only man in her life whom she truly loved, and once again she was being forced to say goodbye to what was left. 

Absent-mindedly, she fingered the ring on her right hand. Standing before the 'music room', she stopped and looked down at her fingers. The diamond there truly was exquisite. It had been noticed by many, though she had refused to say where it had come from. Raoul knew, but one glare from her and he had kept silent, though she knew it had driven a wedge into their friendship which they were unlikely to recover from anytime soon, no matter how hard he tried. She missed having her mother's ring on her finger, but she had been given one in return by the man she hoped to marry and his love could not have been clearer. If only he had stayed long enough for it remain on her left hand. If only . . . one word and she would have stayed. Raoul's safety had been assured. She should have stayed

She had gone back the following day, sneaking in the only way she knew how. But the place was desolate. Yes, the majority of his things were still there, just as when she had left. But she knew he was gone. It had taken her a full two hours before she had stopped sobbing enough to return to the house, but once more it felt like a tomb and her cries had only begun anew.

Once again, she sank into grief, once again she mourned, once again she lived each day at a time, if only because that was what he wanted – else he would not have given her her freedom. Yet this time it was so much harder. With her father, he had not wanted to leave, but couldn't help it. With her Angel, she knew he did not want her to leave, that he could have stopped her. Instead he let her go.

Taking a breath to calm herself, she refused to dwell on it anymore – or she'd never leave. And she had to. He had given her voice wings, and she owed it to him to use them as best she could – no matter how pitiful that offering was without him to guide her. Leaning against the door slightly, she was astonished when something clicked. Unable to resist, her feet carried her into the room. As though walking on air, she glided about, her hands floatingly lovingly just above the surface of the instruments that were his.

The note froze her.

Lying on the bed where she had held him . . . the paper was unmistakeable, the writing undeniable. Rushing over, she lifted the parchment as though it were made of glass and carefully unfolded it.

_Christine, _

_My rose, forgive me. I tried to give you your freedom; I could not consign you to a world of darkness and a life of rejection – you have known too much of that as it is, and the life I lead is filled with more of it than I would wish you to even imagine. But I could not let you go. You possess my every thought, waking or sleeping. Every moment of my life since you entered it, you have haunted me and will go on doing so until I am finally granted release from this cruel world. _

_Forgive me if my words trouble you. I know you will worry that you have done something wrong. No, my dearest Christine: you have done nothing wrong. Though you haunt me, I would not give up that sweet torment for anything. Just as I can never regret anything I did that caused you to gift me with your kiss. I thought there was no greater gift than to have you sing for me, but once again you taught your teacher. And he learned his lesson well. You must know that few women have ever shown me a fragment of the compassion you did, certainly no woman has ever dared kiss me before. That you did made my happiness complete, and that is something I never thought I would claim in this or any life. _

_Rest assured, Christine, no matter what I would wish, I will let you live in peace. My lot is a curse you should never have had to bear, though I remain eternally grateful that you did for a time. You asked me to live, my dear. Until you said those words I was preparing myself for quite the reverse, but I can refuse you nothing and so I will try and do as you ask, but I must beg a favour in return: sing, my rose. So long as you make music, so long as our work remains I will be able to live, knowing I have helped you, knowing I have given you this joy. For truly, I know the joy that fills you as you sing: I saw it each time you graced me with a performance, as surely as I felt it each time Music possessed me. _

_Sing, Christine, and I shall live. _

_Sing, Christine, as a child of Music should. _

_Sing, and remember your fallen Angel sometimes. For he will never forget the joy and keeper of his heart. _

There was no signature.

He truly had wanted her to stay. At least he was alive. At least he would live. He always kept his word. And so he would leave her alone.

Carefully, Christine folded the note again, making sure the only creases were the ones he had made. Raising the note to her face, she breathed in his scent. Placing it back on the bed, she curled up on the floor and wept.

Her Angel was gone.

* * *

**AN: Before you reach for the Punjab lasso, I did get 25 answers to my question at the end of Chapter 70 Ch71), and those 25 answers on behalf of you all voted in favour of a sequel. _A Father's Promise_ is now at an end, but if you think this story is, you don't know your Nedjmet very well. Thank you to all who have read this. If you stuck it out this far, then I hope you will be watching for _A Mother's Prayer_ which will hopefully be reaching your screens soon. Again, many thanks to one and all from your grateful Nedjmet. See you soon. . .**


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